


Stargazing

by exxpelliarmus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Curse Breaking, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Ron Weasley Bashing, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exxpelliarmus/pseuds/exxpelliarmus
Summary: Hermione Granger is left in pieces after the war, and struggles alone at Hogwarts for her final year, missing the company of her two best friends. Draco Malfoy feels isolated and alone, with few friends to turn to. A series of chance meetings that quickly become regular occurrences draw the two together in an unlikely friendship. They help each other heal, and soon their relationship grows from platonic to romantic. Their feelings for each other are tested as they each must face challenges, not the least of which are their own demons. As the year progresses, ancient magic threatens to endanger both their physical and mental health, and they must work together to overcome the curse threatening their relationship and safety.This is the first fic I've written in many years, so my prose is a bit rusty! I would love to hear your thoughts. I love Draco with all my heart and love reading Dramione, so I'm excited for this story. I will update the tags as it goes on. There will also be explicit sexual content in later chapters (my first time writing smut, we'll see how it goes). Updates are likely to be slow since I am a full-time university student.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. The Chapter Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have stumbled across this fic, I want to thank you so much! 2021 marks ten years of me being a Harry Potter fan and I read lots of Dramione fanfiction this winter break, so I figured it was time to give it another go. I haven't written fanfiction since about 2016/2017 so I'm a little rusty. Redownloading TikTok has also meant that my Draco Malfoy obsession is back in full force (but to be honest, it never really left) so I hope you all enjoy my vision of post-war Draco. I am eager to hear any comments or constructive criticism you have. :) Thanks and I hope you enjoy!

It was five in the morning and Hermione Granger could not sleep. Since waking at four, she had been tossing and turning in bed, but the nightmare that jostled her from sleep kept replaying in her mind.

 _What else did you take from my vault?_ The high-pitched, maniacal voice played like a loop inside her mind, the not-quite-healed cuts on her forearm tingling painfully despite having been inflicted nearly four months ago.

Finally deciding that sleep was out of the question, Hermione pushed her comforter off and softly set her feet on the carpeted floor of her childhood bedroom, not wanting to make any noise that might wake her parents. It had been two weeks since they had all returned from Australia, and though Hermione had managed to restore their memories, it had been an arduous process that left all of them emotionally drained. Sometimes they would need reminding of certain facts, such as where in the house they kept the tea bags and what Hermione’s favourite book had been as a child. As much as she loved her parents and had missed them during the war, Hermione was eager to return to Hogwarts. It was exhausting to be around them, constantly reminded of what she had done and the time together they had lost.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hermione looked around her room. A Gryffindor banner and a framed copy of her letter with which OWLs she had achieved hung on the wall opposite her bed above her desk. Hermione smiled slightly at the memory. At the time, the single “E” she had achieved in Defence Against the Dark Arts had seemed like the end of the world, but her mother had been proud and insisted on hanging it up in Hermione’s room. She had wanted to display Hermione’s accomplishments, but could not do so in any part of the house their Muggle friends might see when visiting.

Hermione’s eyes drifted to her bed side table, where a framed magical photograph of her, Harry, and Ron at the Yule Ball stood. It had been taken before Ron’s outburst by one of the many photographers who had been circling that evening to capture memories of the event. Three pairs of robes, which belonged to Viktor, Padma, and Parvati, could just be seen in the edge of the frame as the photo looped. Ron looked sullen, his smile weak and forced, and Harry appeared stressed, his smile tight-lipped and hand clutching a Butterbeer. In contrast, Hermione was smiling broadly, her eyes flitting to the side where Viktor stood out of the frame. While Hermione’s memories of that night were not entirely pleasant, it was one of the few photos she had with the boys, who were usually so reluctant to get in front of a camera.

Hermione noticed just then that her heart rate had slowed and her forearm no longer tingled. Looking around her room and remembering happier days had banished the memory of Malfoy Manor to the back of her mind. _For now,_ a voice inside of her said. Hermione pushed that thought away, refusing to let her demons get the best of her again today. Today she was going back to Hogwarts. It was a happy day.

Hermione crossed the room to her desk where her already-packed Hogwarts trunk sat. She had been packed for couple of days now but had taken to anxiously clearing out her trunk and re-packing it at least once per day, plagued by a feeling that she was forgetting something. Hermione knew it was silly, she had checked the trunk at least ten times, but the past year of living on the run had created a habit of nervously checking everything she did over and over again and constantly wondering what she was missing.

By the time she had completely emptied her trunk, re-folded every set of robes, checked that she had the necessary quantities of potion-making supplies, inspected her new textbooks for damage, and repacked everything back into her trunk, it was nearing seven thirty in the morning. Hermione could hear her parents stirring downstairs. She buckled the latches on her trunk, grabbed her wand from her nightstand, slipped it into the pocket of her pyjama pants, and went downstairs to join her parents.

“Morning, Mum,” she greeted her mother, who was busying herself with the kettle.

“Hello, dear,” Jean said, turning away from the kettle to give Hermione a broad smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Hermione answered, her back to her mother, opening a cabinet to grab the bread and peanut butter.

“That’s what you always say,” Jean answered, frowning.

“Because I slept fine,” Hermione replied stiffly. “Want some toast?” she diverted the topic away from her nightmares, turning to look at her mother. Jean was standing with her arms crossed, fixing her daughter with a knowing glare.

“Yes, please,” she answered. “I know you have nightmares,” she added as Hermione turned her back to her again.

Hermione set the bread and peanut butter down on the counter. She inhaled sharply. “I’m fine, Mum,” she reassured Jean, even though it could not be further from the truth.

“I’m worried about you,” Jean said while Hermione pulled out her wand to toast the bread. “Going back to that big castle all alone, and without Harry or Ron –“

“I have other friends,” Hermione interjected harshly, waving her wand to make a knife float out of the silverware drawer and start spreading peanut butter onto their toast.

Jean pressed her lips into a thin line. “I just mean, are you sure you’re ready to go back so soon? Why not take another year off to relax? I’m sure they would let you. You’ve been through so much, darling, and –“

The kettle, which had been slowly boiling, barely audible yet, suddenly let out a sharp sustained whistle as the water rapidly heated. Hermione felt her magic lurching, threatening to break free of her control, and she closed her eyes, reeling it back in. “If one more person mentions how much I’ve been through –“ she snapped, then stopped herself, turning to face her mother as their toast floated onto plates.

Jean’s eyes were wide and she had taken several steps back from the kettle and stove, her hand on her chest in surprise.

Hermione winced. “Sorry,” she waved her hand and the kettle stopped whistling. “It’s just that… I don’t like to be reminded of it any more than I have to, okay? I didn’t mean to snap.”

“It’s okay,” Jean answered with a weak smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you.” She walked back towards the kettle and started making their tea. Hermione resisted the urge to wave her wand to do it, knowing it annoyed her mother when she used magic for little things.

Hermione brought their plates of toast to the dining room table (without whispering a _Wingardium Leviosa_ ) and sat down beside her mother. They ate in an uncomfortable silence, an occurrence which had been happening frequently since their reunion. Hermione’s parents understood so little of exactly what had happened over the past year and she was reluctant to tell them most of it, both because it was difficult for her to talk about and because she knew it would scare them. As a result, they had little to talk about. However, the silence was not so bad with her father, who had always been more easygoing than her mother, so Hermione found herself smiling as he walked out of the hallway that came from the master bedroom.

“Morning, Dad. Toast?” she offered.

“Morning, ‘Mione,” he smiled, using her childhood nickname that her Hogwarts friends had adopted. “Toast sounds lovely.”

Hermione’s father, Christopher, was much more relaxed about using magic than her mother, and sat down beside Hermione, accustomed to how she prepared breakfast. Hermione waved her wand to prepare toast in the same manner as before and a cup of steaming tea for her father. They floated from the kitchen into the dining room and settled in front of her father.

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he flashed her a smile, lifting the toast to his mouth. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Hermione answered automatically, not missing the way her mother’s eyes narrowed at the comment.

By the time the three of them finished their breakfast and tea, exchanging light conversation about whether Hermione was excited to go back to school, it was nearing eight thirty in the morning. It was a forty-five minute drive from their house into central London where King’s Cross was and as a prefect, Hermione was expected to arrive at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters by ten-o-clock. “We’d better get going,” Hermione said to her parents, rising from the table.

Jean and Christopher nodded in agreement. They were used to Hermione’s ever-present need to be at least fifteen minutes early to scheduled events and did not argue with her, even though leaving soon would mean arriving at least half an hour before Hermione was expected to be there.

Once back in her bedroom, Hermione sat down on her bed, rubbing her hands over her forehead anxiously. She could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on due to her lack of sleep last night but did not want to rifle through her trunk and wreck her careful packing in search of the potion that would make it go away.

Sighing, Hermione got back up and waved her wand to make her bed. She picked out a simple pair of jeans and a knitted jumper from her closet to change into for the journey to King’s Cross. She opened her trunk one more time, making sure that her Gryffindor robes were right on top for when she would need to change into them.

She was sitting on her desk chair, pulling her socks on her feet, when she heard a loud crack from outside. Hermione felt her heart start to race and she jumped up, grabbing her wand from her desk. The sound was unmistakably someone Apparating but the wards Hermione had placed on her parents’ house should not have allowed anyone but her to Apparate within two blocks of it.

Hermione anxiously ran down the stairs with one sock on, clutching her wand tightly in front of her, ready to jinx whatever ex-Death Eater was surely blasting their front door open right now. She approached the entranceway, a little surprised when she did not see the door hanging off its hinges and heard the doorbell instead.

Hermione swallowed her fear, knowing that someone whose intentions were malicious probably would not knock. Despite logic telling her otherwise, her heart still threatened to beat out of her chest, anxiety pulsing through her veins.

“Hermione? It’s us. Me and Ron!” came a voice through the door that Hermione instantly recognized.

Breathing a sigh of relief, but still keeping her wand trained in front of her, she opened the door a crack. Her heart swelled, this time with happiness, to see her best friend Harry Potter standing on her doorstep. “What is my Patronus?” she asked out of habit to check that it was really him and not an imposter. She had only cast a Patronus charm a couple of times in her life, and Harry was the one who had taught it to her.

Harry smiled at her knowingly. “An otter,” he answered. “The first chocolate frog card I ever got?” he asked her in turn, since Harry’s Patronus was far too well known.

“Dumbledore,” she answered, recalling their first-year adventures researching Nicholas Flamel, and pulled the door open to embrace him. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” she pestered him.

“Did you forget that you adjusted the wards to allow Ron and me in?” Harry asked as he let her go, raising an eyebrow in concern.

“Oh, right,” Hermione feigned, not remembering at all. It must have been before she went to find her parents in Australia. During the first month or so after the war, she had been even more anxious than she was now. Most of what she remembered from that time was the paralyzing fear she felt at the slightest noise and the panic attacks that would leave her curled up in a ball on the floor of her room.

“Anyway, Ron and I thought that it would be nice to come see you off,” Harry addressed her second question, smiling at her.

Hermione’s eyes shifted to Ron for the first time since the two of them had arrived. He was standing on the step down from Harry with his hands in his pockets, looking as uncomfortable as Hermione felt. He briefly met her eyes, smiling sheepishly at her before looking over her shoulder into the house.

Hermione and Ron had broken up one month ago, shortly before she left for Australia, and she had not seen him since. It had been her decision to break up, not his, and she suspected he was still deeply hurt by it. Ron had not understood when Hermione explained that she needed space to heal, and she could not bring herself to tell him the true reason she did not want to be with him anymore.

Hermione had gotten bored of Ron. She knew it was an awful thing to say, but it was true. After their spontaneous kiss during the Battle of Hogwarts, she was expecting an adventurous relationship, but not two weeks after Ron had settled into a sort of domestic comfort. It was as if he expected Hermione to make him dinner and knit him jumpers. Hermione Granger was many things, but a housewife was not one of them, and she did _not_ knit.

She turned back to Harry, who was looking in between his two best friends, picking up on the tension between them. Harry internally sighed, thinking of the drunken tirade he was going to hear from Ron tonight as he once again languished about how Hermione had left him.

“That’s so nice of you, thank you, Harry!” Hermione smiled at him, opening the door wider to invite the boys in.

“Who’s there?” came Christopher’s voice from the master suite. He walked into the entranceway, fully dressed in jeans and a jumper and smiled when he saw the boys. “Harry! Ron! It’s good to see you boys again!”

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Granger,” Harry responded as he stepped inside, wiping his shoes on the mat. Ron just grunted in agreement with Harry’s statement, still not saying anything.

“Hermione tells me you two are training to be – what’s it called again? – Aur-airs?” he asked Harry, mispronouncing the word.

“Uh, Aurors, sir,” Harry corrected him, launching into an explanation of their life at the Academy. Hermione had already heard his story, both in letters and in person when they had caught up at a pub last week. She excused herself as she went upstairs to get her trunk and put her other sock on.

From her bedroom, Hermione sent her trunk floating downstairs to the garage and into their car. Her parents were already sitting in the front, and Harry and Ron had squished themselves in the back. They ignored her protests when she told them they did not have to come all the way into London with her and Hermione found herself squished up against the door with Harry in the middle and Ron on the far side of the car.

Hermione and Harry spoke about which NEWT classes she was excited to take while her father drove, occasionally asking questions about words they mentioned. Ron was painfully silent the whole drive into London.

They arrived at King’s Cross Station around nine thirty and Hermione said goodbye to her parents in the parking lot.

“I’m going to miss you, ‘Mione,” Jean said, kissing the top of her daughter’s head as they embraced. “Write if you need anything, okay? Promise?” she told Hermione anxiously as they let go of each other.

“I will, Mum,” Hermione lied, forcing a smile. She gave her father a hug and bit back tears at the thought of parting from her parents again. Though glad to be returning to Hogwarts, it was still difficult for her to say goodbye to them.

After exchanging a few more words of farewell, Hermione watched her parents drive away, waving to her mother until the car was too far away to see her face in the window.

Harry pushed Hermione’s trolley for her as they made their way into the station, Ron lagging a step behind them. “Are you going to be okay this year, ‘Mione?” Harry asked her, concerned.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” she hissed, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“’Mione,” Harry sighed, glancing at Ron to convey his worry to the other friend in their trio. “I know things have been hard for you –“ he started to say as they navigated towards Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

“I wish everyone would stop talking about what things have been like for me. I will be fine. And I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied, making her intentions clear as she felt anxiety threatening to bubble up in her chest once again. It was becoming a pattern. Anytime anyone so much as mentioned the war or its effects, Hermione’s emotions started to threaten to overcome her. She had taken to pushing them away so that she did not becoming a sobbing mess on the floor.

The three of them ran through the barrier onto the platform in silence, the tension palpable. The war had changed all of them and their friendship was now stronger in many ways, bonded as they were by shared trauma, but Hermione and Ron’s breakup had dented their dynamic in a way Hermione expected would take several months to repair.

“Thank you, guys, for coming with me, you really didn’t have to,” Hermione said to the boys, smiling, as an attendant levitated her trunk onto the train and towards the prefects’ compartment.

“Of course,” Harry smiled, patting Hermione’s head affectionately. 

“Yeah, of course.” Ron finally spoke, still not meeting Hermione’s eyes.

Hermione glanced at her watch. Nine forty-five. She had better get to the prefects’ compartment. “I have to get going. I’ll write to you guys. Maybe you can come visit on a weekend?” she proposed, but the boys were not paying attention to her. Their eyes were on the barrier, looking at who had just appeared through it.

Hermione turned to see who they were staring at, and felt her heart skip a beat when she saw the tall form and shockingly blond hair of Draco Malfoy. She swallowed the lump in her throat as images of a tall, dark room started to invade her mind.

 _“Malfoy?”_ Ron hissed to Harry quietly. “What is he doing here? Is he coming back? And why is he so early?”

Draco had frozen when he saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione standing a couple of meters away from the entrance to the platform. He tensed, goosebumps spreading over his skin at the sight of the three war heroes in front of them. The last time he had seen them, they had been advocating on his behalf at his trial in front of the Wizenagamot. He had sent them all owls afterwards, politely thanking them, but received no replies. Clearing his mind of thoughts of his many, _many_ crimes, he gave them all a curt nod before turning away from them and driving his trolley towards the front compartment of the train.

Hermione turned back to her friends. “I don’t know,” she shrugged her shoulders. “But I really have to be going you guys.” She smiled up at her friends, grown men who were now so much taller than her, and was struck by a feeling of trepidation at bidding them farewell. Their lives had been so intertwined for so many years and now they were going off on their own, starting their careers, without each other.

“I’m really going to miss you, ‘Mione,” Harry said, pulling her into another tight hug. She wrapped her arms around his solid chest and breathed in his scent. He smelled of dust, likely due to the dilapidated state of his home, 12 Grimmauld Place, but under that was the earthy, manly _Harry_ scent she had grown to know so well during the nights in their tent just the two of them that he held her while she cried.

Hermione was reluctant to let go and leave the comfort of her childhood behind, but when she felt Harry start to release her, she took a step back. She really had to get going so she would have time to change into her robes before the prefects’ meeting.

Hermione turned to Ron, who looked unsure of what to do. “Write to me, okay? I want to stay in touch. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.” Hermione smiled softly at him, taking a step forward to embrace him as well. Ron tensed under her grip but slowly wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

Ron’s heart clenched as Hermione wrapped her arms around him. He found himself trying to memorize the feeling of her petite form against his, the way she smelled, and the way her bushy hair tickled his chin. “I’ll try but you know me, I’m not very good with the words,” he teased as she started to pull back. He blinked back a few tears, not missing the way Harry watched the two of them sadly.

Hermione laughed and Ron felt for a moment as if his heart would burst. “You’d better try!” she smiled at him in a way that did not quite reach her eyes.

Hermione looked at her best friends of seven years, wondering how long it would be before she saw them again. “Stay out of trouble, you two. Good luck with the Academy,” she smiled.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said. “We’ll see you soon, hopefully.”

Hermione nodded and turned her back to them. As she walked away, she was caught up in the feeling that it seemed like one chapter of her life was closing. Like finishing a good book, she was sad it was over, but could not help feeling excited for what was to come. When she reached the top stair of the first compartment of the Hogwarts Express, she looked back at Harry and Ron. They were waving goodbye to her and smiling. Hermione smiled back at them, gave them one last wave, and ducked her head into the train, ready and excited for what was to come.


	2. Slightly Less of an Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really enjoying writing fanfic again! Thanks to the couple of people who have read the story and left kudos already. <3 I appreciate you! I am going to try to get a couple of chapters published before my classes this semester get too wild. Hopefully I am able to balance them with writing as the semester goes on. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Hermione walked down the halls of the Hogwarts Express, a feeling of happiness rather than anxiety bubbling up in her chest. It was a welcome change to be overcome by a positive feeling, rather than ones that reminded her of the war. As she made her way to the prefects’ compartment, she ran a hand over the polished wood of the compartment doors, thinking of all the memories she had on the train.

When she reached the prefects’ compartment, she saw shadows from behind the glass, which someone had cast a charm on to make it appear frosted. Assuming it was because someone was changing, she knocked once on the glass. “Hello? Is it okay if I come in?”

“One second,” came the reply in a voice she recognized but could not quite place. The door swung open a minute later and Hermione found herself looking up at the face of Draco Malfoy. She was struck by the realization that this was the closest they had stood to one another since that fateful night at Malfoy Manor. He seemed taller.

Draco looked down at Hermione, feeling his heart squeeze with guilt as he took in her face. He breathed in sharply and felt his pulse quicken. It felt as though there was a lump in his throat, a great, big lump of remorse and anger at his own actions. He felt like he could not breath, his vision was clouding with anxiety, his heart racing – Draco shook his head, pushing his emotions down. “Granger,” he said, his voice coming out soft and raspy. He cleared his throat and coughed once. “What are you doing here?” he asked, this time in his normal tone of voice.

Hermione took a step back from Draco, uncomfortable to stand so close to him under his piercing gaze. For a second, she had thought she had seen some sort of tender emotion flickering in his eyes, but knew it was silly to think so. The only emotions she had ever known Malfoy to be capable of showing took the form of hostile and snide remarks. “I’m a prefect, remember?” she rolled her eyes. “Can I get past you? I need to get my robes.” Malfoy stood to the side to let her pass.

As Hermione stood on the tips of her toes to reach her trunk, her jumper rode up, exposing a single strip of the skin along her back. Draco found his eyes glued to it. _What is wrong with me?_ He thought to himself. _The war must have fucked me up more than I thought, that’s the only reason. I just need to get laid._ It had been over a year since he had last found that sort of release and getting himself off in his bathroom with the door locked just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Hermione turned around, robes in hand, to find Malfoy staring at her intensely again. She tucked her robes under her arms and crossed them, throwing him an equally penetrating gaze. “What about you, Malfoy? What are you doing here?”

He smirked at her. “I’m a prefect, remember?” he asked mockingly.

Hermione rolled her eyes again. “I remember you slacking off and ignoring Slytherins’ bad behaviour while taking points from Gryffindors every chance you got.”

“It’s not my fault they make it so easy, what with their constant need to show off,” he retorted.

Hermione sighed. “Excuse me, I have to go and change,” she walked past him, trying to ignore the way his eyes watched her leave. She shut the compartment door a little too hard and made way for an empty compartment several rows away from the one Malfoy was occupying.

As soon as Granger was gone, Draco threw a quick _Colloportus_ at the door, sealing it shut and sunk down onto a seat. He resisted the urge to run his hands through his hair, a nervous habit of his. He did not want to show up for the first prefects’ meeting looking like some ungroomed low-life. Draco felt anxiety rising in his chest again and painful memories flashed through his mind… the Dark Lord destroying their drawing room in fury when he learned of Potter’s escape… being forced to inflict the Cruciatus Curse on Rowle… sitting awkwardly in the Great Hall after the Battle of Hogwarts with the other students glaring at him. Draco tried to shake the memories, to banish the feelings of regret and fear coursing through his veins, but they would not budge. His hands started to shake, and in an effort to calm them, he pulled on his tie, loosening it and then clutching it tightly in his fingers. His breathing became shaky and uneven, and he took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It helped a little bit. He forced his face into his signature passive scowl and clutched the edge of the seat tightly, his hands no longer shaky but his knuckles turning white. _I’m fine,_ he told himself, knowing it was a lie.

Hermione ignored the anxiety that was insidiously creeping back into her veins as she closed the door of the compartment, locked the door, and cast a charm to frost the glass. _Not again, not again, no more today,_ she told herself, repeating it like a mantra to keep the unwelcome feelings at bay. She swallowed the lump in her throat, shaking her head to clear it as she pulled her Gryffindor jumper over her head. Adjusting her tie and pulling her robes on, she made her way back to the prefects’ compartment.

The glass was no longer frosted when Hermione arrived, and she could see that Malfoy was still in the only one sitting inside. She glanced at her watch. Nine fifty-five. Where were the other prefects? She tried the door of the compartment, but it would not open. She rapped on the glass again, causing Malfoy to flinch and look up at her. She gestured to the lock, indicating she could not get in. Malfoy flicked his wand, casting a wordless _Alohomora_ , and let her in.

Hermione took a seat opposite Malfoy and opened the curtains that he must have closed while he changed. She looked out onto the platform for the other prefects. She saw Padma and Parvati Patil run through the barrier, followed by Dean Thomas, but there was no one else standing outside.

“Where is everyone?” she asked Malfoy. “We were supposed to be here at ten.”

“Ten fifteen, Granger,” he replied, his tone rude.

“What?” Hermione turned to face him. “I’m pretty sure it was ten.” She waved her wand to summon her Hogwarts letter from her trunk, which she had packed on top, that outlined her prefect responsibilities. On the parchment, Professor McGonagall’s elegant script described the prefect position, its expectations, and that she was expected to arrive at the platform at ten fifteen. “Oh,” Hermione said, feeling stupid. “I must’ve… must’ve mixed it up.”

Hermione knew perfectly well what had happened. She had not mixed it up. Rather, her persistent companions, anxiety and self-doubt, had ingrained in her to be there by ten. Somewhere along the way, she had taken that to mean that was when they were expected to be there.

Draco scoffed, leaning back in his seat, feeling slightly more at ease. Even though he had resolved to be not quite as much of an asshole this year, teasing Granger was familiar, and it reminded him of a time before Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, calming his racing pulse and anxious mind.

“Where are Potter and your weasel boyfriend?” Draco asked, falling back into his routine of cruel nicknames and antagonizing the Gryffindor sitting opposite him.

Hermione winced at his comment. “Don’t call him that. Ron and Harry elected not to come back this year. They’re training to be Aurors.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Ron and I broke up,” she finished, still looking out the window as a couple more students passed through the magical barrier onto the platform, wondering why on earth she was telling Malfoy of all people about her personal life.

Draco said nothing. She was right, of course, that he should not call Weasley a weasel. He reminded himself of the personal vow he had made to keep his head down and finish his schooling in peace. The silence made him uncomfortable, reminding him too much of the tension of his home over the past year, so he pressed on to keep Granger talking. “Why did you come back?” he asked her.

Hermione finally turned away from the window, looking at him properly for the first time. He was lounging back in his seat, arms crossed, and expression unreadable. “I wanted to get my NEWTs,” she answered simply. “Why did you?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Same thing. Last year was a shit show, and I didn’t even finish it. Plus, my mother said it was unacceptable for me to not finish my schooling. So, when McGonagall said they would be repeating the last year for all the students, I accepted.”

Hermione stared at him inquisitively. Malfoy seemed different. Sure, he was still a bit of a snob and he still had a stupid, uppity look on his face, but something about him was more humble and less overbearing. She was just about to reply when the carriage door slid open to reveal Dean Thomas and the Patil twins. The three Gryffindors and the Ravenclaw exchanged greetings and hugs, ignoring the Slytherin in the corner of the compartment.

“I’m so glad to see you, Hermione!” Parvati exclaimed, sitting down beside Hermione. “I thought you weren’t coming back this year.”

Hermione frowned. “Why would you think that?” she asked, turning to face her roommate of six years.

Parvati looked confused and unsure how to proceed. “Oh, um –“ she stammered, trying to get her words out.

“Parvati’s been made Head Girl,” her sister Padma interjected with a weak smile. “Naturally, we all thought it would be you, so when McGonagall wrote to her, we thought you must not be returning.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, a little surprised at McGonagall’s choice, but then reminded herself that of the Gryffindor girls in her year, one was dead, and the other two were academically unexceptional. “Congratulations, Parvati, that’s great.” Hermione smiled weakly, electing not to reveal that she _had_ been McGonagall’s first choice for the position, but turned it down.

Parvati blushed, picking up on Hermione’s discomfort. “Thanks,” she replied. “And Dean’s been made a prefect _and_ Head Boy! I thought that was a little weird, considering Gryffindor already has two prefects in our year –“

“Ron’s not coming back,” Hermione cut her off. She was really getting tired of saying it but had a feeling that it would take people a while to get used to the idea of not always seeing her, Harry, and Ron together. Hermione found herself explaining again to the rest of the compartment’s occupants how Harry and Ron had chosen not to come back and were training to be Aurors.

The other prefects slowly filed into the cabin, grabbing their robes from the trunks that had been stowed ahead, darting out to change, and running back. Parvati and Dean lead introductions and facilitated a few icebreaker games. In the cabin, there were both returning prefects and new ones, since some students had elected not to come back to repeat their seventh year. Padma Patil was a Ravenclaw prefect again and her male companion from her house was Anthony Goldstein. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were both returning Hufflepuff seventh year prefects. Draco Malfoy had returned as the male Slytherin prefect for their year, but his female companion Pansy Parkinson had elected not to return, replaced by Daphne Greengrass. It seemed as though most of the prefects were, like Hermione, academically inclined and wanted to finish their studies, even if it meant graduating a year later. Hermione paid little attention to the introductions of the fifth- and sixth-year prefects, most of which were returning since all students were being made to repeat the year prior, with the exception of seventh years, who could choose to leave Hogwarts altogether. She was sure with time, she would get to know their names better. Besides, the way they looked at her reverently told her that they saw her as the war hero she was reported as in _the Daily Prophet_ , which she did not want to have to deal with right now.

It was now ten thirty and the platform outside the windows was starting to bustle with activity. Dean, with Parvati nodding along, instructed the prefects to go outside and offer help loading the train to any students or their parents who needed it.

After her first few interactions with students and their parents, Hermione found herself standing up against a brick wall, trying to avoid the way they treated her as a celebrity. She chastised herself for not expecting that type of reaction. It was obvious that she would be recognized from the articles published about her, Ron, and Harry in the weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts. In fact, they were still being published, just not quite as frequently. Hermione did not resent her newfound fame or the thanks people gave her. In fact, she appreciated the recognition, but sometimes it all got to be a little too much and she found her mind needing a break.

Draco had been wandering through the crowd, committed to actually taking his prefect duties seriously this year, but after the first couple families he offered to help walked away from him without saying much, he gave up. He could tell by the way their eyes flicked to his left sleeve that they saw him only as a Death Eater. Scanning the crowd for a familiar face, he saw only Granger backed up against one of the walls of the platform. His friends would probably arrive a little later, never really ones to be overly early to things. He found his feet carrying himself to the wall where Granger stood and leaned against it beside her, keeping some distance between them. “I’ve never known you to be one to back down from responsibility, Granger. What’s got you hiding off to the side?” he asked.

Granger jumped, turning to look at Draco standing a metre away from her. She had obviously not noticed his approach, lost in her thoughts. She sighed. “Shove off, Malfoy, I don’t feel like being antagonized today, thanks,” she replied.

“I wasn’t trying to antagonize you. I was actually wondering.” The words tumbled out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop himself, and he found himself surprised by his honesty.

Granger turned to look at him, suspicious. She stood up straight, crossing her arms and giving him a quick look-over from top to bottom. “What’s gotten into you, Malfoy? You seem different.”

“Do I?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. _She probably finds you even more insufferable than before,_ the self-deprecating voice inside of him said. _Shut up,_ he thought to himself. Not that he cared much what Granger thought of him, but he was a Slytherin after all, meaning he took pride in his reputation.

Granger frowned and leaned back against the wall, looking away from him again to scan the crowd. “Yes, you do.”

“Well, I am trying to be slightly less of an asshole,” he remarked, still looking at her, noticing the nervous way her eyes travelled over the crowd.

Granger scoffed, turning to look back at him to roll her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure that must be a great challenge for _you,_ ” she replied contemptuously.

Draco was about to reply that _she_ was the one being antagonistic now when he noticed her eyes look just past his shoulder. She smiled weakly at whatever she was looking at, raising her hand slightly to wave. Draco turned to look and saw a young boy, obviously in his first or second year, pulling on his mother’s sleeve and pointing to Granger. The mother looked up and smiled at her, eyes wide in reverence.

Draco turned back to Granger as she looked away from the boy and his mother. “That must get annoying,” he said honestly.

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re going to remind me just how hard my life now that everyone knows who I am, Malfoy, so spare me the insults,” Granger shot back, not looking at him, her arms still crossed.

“No, I’m serious. I know what it’s like to have people staring at you constantly,” he answered truthfully, once again surprised by his candor. Now that he wasn’t insulting her, Draco noticed that she was actually kind of nice to be around. He felt like he could talk to her easily, without having to worry about saying the wrong thing. _What the fuck?_ he found himself wondering.

Granger narrowed her eyes at him, confused. “What are you talking about?

Draco considering telling her to forget what he said but decided against it. Maybe being honest was the first step to being less of an asshole. “I suppose it’s not exactly the same thing. People stare at you because they respect what you did. People stare at me because they wonder why I’m not in prison.”

Hermione hesitated before speaking. It surprised her that Malfoy was willingly engaging in conversation with her and had yet to insult her. Maybe she should not have been so quick to judge. Maybe he _was_ slightly less of an asshole after the war. “I’m not going to tell you I pity your circumstances, Malfoy, so if that’s what you’re fishing for, you won’t get it. But I don’t think you deserve to be in prison.”

Hermione dared to look at him once more, taking him in again. He _did_ seem taller, though she knew it was unlikely. He could not have grown much in the months since she had last seen him. No, it was something else. It was… confidence. Yes, that was it. On his own, instead of surrounded by Voldemort’s cronies, Malfoy stood taller, no longer flinching or standing off to the side in fear.

Malfoy smirked, shaking his head. “I wasn’t looking for your _pity_ , Granger, I was just saying that I understand being stared at.”

Hermione balked, shocked that Malfoy was actually bordering on being empathetic. Uncertain how to proceed, she glanced at her watch. Ten fifty. She should probably head towards the train. “I’m going back to the prefects’ compartment,” she said to him, ignoring his comment.

As she started to walk away, Draco called out after her. “Granger?” She turned, looking him over once again. “Thanks for saying you don’t think I should be in prison.”

Hermione thought it was not possible to be any more surprised by their conversation, but she was. She was usually so level-headed, but Malfoy left her utterly at a loss for words. “Fix your tie, Malfoy,” she answered finally. “We’re supposed to be setting an example here.” Then she turned away from him, walking back into the crowd and towards the train.

Remembering the near-anxiety attack he had had earlier, Draco quickly raised his hands to his tie to tighten it and fluff out the knot. Annoyed he had forgotten to fix it, he could feel the familiar feeling of self-criticism rising in his chest but stuffed it back down by taking a deep breath and walking briskly towards the train. As he dodged between the crowd of younger students, ignoring their parents’ eyes on him, he found himself reflecting on the conversation he had just had with Granger. She thought he deserved freedom. She didn’t think he should be rotting in a cell like his father. _I can’t imagine why,_ he thought glumly as he climbed the steps back into the train. Nevertheless, Draco had actually sort of _liked_ being around her. The prejudices he had been raised in – which he was still struggling to overcome – had prevented him from ever considering that he might actually enjoy her company. Maybe being less of an asshole wasn’t such a bad plan.


	3. United but Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far! I really appreciate the support as I get back into writing. Classes started for me yesterday but I am hoping to publish a chapter per week. I think it will be a good outlet for me and a nice break from studying. Just so you are aware, going forward, this story is going to very much focus on mental health, specifically depression and anxiety. I have experience with both of them and I believe that is something that basically everyone Harry's age would be struggling with to some extent after the war, but Hermione and Draco more than most.  
> Please let me know your thoughts! I appreciate every comment and kudos, they honestly make me so happy. Thank you all. <3

The rest of the train ride was uneventful. Most of the students were at least somewhat depressed by the events of the war, and the laughter which usually accompanied the ride into Hogwarts was subdued. Hermione spent most of her time sitting in the prefects’ compartment reading over some of the brewing instructions for potions they would be covering this year, leaving only for her scheduled patrols. She made light conversation with Parvati, Padma, and Dean, ignoring the sulking Malfoy in the corner. He seemed on edge, and whenever anyone tried to talk to him or reminded him it was his turn to patrol, they were met by snarky comments and eye rolls. He kept his head buried in a book for most of the train ride as well.

Draco’s hands kept raising to fidget nervously with his tie. He was now paranoid it was crooked. Even though he kept his eyes trained on the pages of the book in front of him, his mind kept replaying what Granger had said over and over again. _I don’t think you deserve to be in prison._ For some reason, those words stuck with him, and he could not shake them. Draco certainly believed he should be in prison. What reason did he have to be happy? To be free to return to Hogwarts and graduate, going on to a career? At his trial, Potter and Granger had advocated for him, saying they would be dead if not for him. Weasley had been silent but agreed with everything the other two had said. It was true, if not for his reluctance to identify them, they would likely be dead, but Draco could not pride himself on that because he was too caught up in his own cowardice. He had been too much of a coward to do what the Dark Lord asked of him, but he was also too much of a coward to rebel against him. He was stuck in the middle of two paths, the light and the dark, too afraid to commit to either.

Even though Draco’s heart yearned to go towards the light, the thought of going against his father, renouncing his past, and changing his behaviour scared him. As much as he hated himself and what he had done, he didn’t know how to change. How was he supposed to become a better person when all he had ever known was the bull shit his father spewed about blood status? Draco knew that a person’s parentage didn’t make a difference in their abilities. He also knew if he was ever quoted saying that the media would have a field day, and he would be thrust under the microscope more than he already was, held to a new standard and expected to be _good._

Draco didn’t know if he could be good. A couple of nice comments and holding back from insulting people certainly didn’t make everything he had done go away. He still felt tempted to act how he had for the first sixteen years of his life, even though that person had been a piece of shit. He couldn’t bring himself to commit to changing. What if he messed up?

For the entire train ride, even as he walked up and down the corridors on his patrols, Draco was overcome with self-criticism. A lump had settled in his throat and refused to leave, no matter how many deep breaths he took. He was grateful when they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. Even though it was the site of so many of his painful memories, Hogwarts Castle held happy memories for him as well, and it was a source of comfort that he hoped would cheer him up. For six years, Hogwarts had been the one place he got a bit of a break from his overbearing parents and their pureblood bullshit. Even though his younger self _had_ actually believed that blood status was linked to a person’s worth, at Hogwarts he hadn’t had to hear his father constantly talking about how they were better than everyone and held to a higher standard because of who they were.

Hermione, along with the other prefects, stayed on the train until all the students had filed off into the Thestral-drawn carriages and did a final sweep to check for stragglers. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff prefects, along with Dean, Parvati, and Daphne all piled into one carriage, leaving Hermione and Malfoy to take the last one up to the castle.

As they sat in silence, Hermione found herself staring at the Thestral, wondering whose death was responsible for her now being able to see it. She had lost count of the number of people she had seen die and bodies she had helped bury, but who had been the first? Dobby? Did house elves count to make Thestrals appear? She hoped yes but had a feeling they didn’t. Maybe Lavender? Hermione’s heart twinged at the thought of her past roommate who she had seen savaged by Fenrir Greyback. As much as she had once resented Lavender, her death was one of the ones that hit Hermione they hardest. They had shared a bedroom for six years and now she was gone.

Hermione found herself sneaking a glance at Malfoy, who was also staring at the Thestral. “Can you see them?” she asked.

“Of course I can,” Malfoy snapped.

“Oh, right.” Hermione felt stupid once again. “Dumbledore.”

Malfoy’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, and she noticed, shockingly, that they appeared just the slightest bit red. “Shut up about it, Granger,” he hissed.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth like a fish, unsure how to respond. Malfoy, showing emotion? He really was different. Maybe the war had affected him more than she realized. Maybe he was a changed man after all.

_No, no, no,_ Draco thought to himself as anxious tears threatened to drop and the lump in his throat got worse. Seeing the Thestral reminded him even more of all the shit he had done. How he had been too much of a coward to kill Dumbledore, even though his family’s safety depended on it. How he had argued with the Headmaster and himself in that moment, trying to decide what to do. How every part of him had screamed not to do it but he couldn’t bring himself to lower his wand until it was too late.

When they pulled up to the castle, Draco jumped out of the carriage before it came to a complete stop, leaving Granger behind. He walked quickly, past the throng of first years coming in from the boathouse, some of them noticeably wet with lake water. As he walked, Draco found himself repeating words over and over in his head, trying to calm his rapid pulse. _It’s over, it’s over, there are no Death Eaters in the corners, it’s done, you’re done…_ he tried to convince himself. He kept feeling like Alecto or Amycus Carrow were watching him from behind his back, scrutinizing him to make sure he was still committed to their cause. He didn’t slow his pace or stop repeating himself until he took a seat at the Slytherin table beside Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Daphne Greengrass.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Daphne asked, quickly glancing down the table at her sister Astoria, who was staring at him intensely.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, trying to convince himself as well as the others.

“You look a bit… feverish,” she replied, pausing for a moment to find the word.

“Well, if your bloody sister would stop staring at me, maybe I could have a moment to take a breath!” Draco replied harshly.

Daphne flinched and several places down the table Astoria did the same. She had clearly been listening in to their conversation.

Daphne scowled at him. “What’s got your wand in a knot?” she asked, leaning over the table to look him in the eye.

Draco met her gaze for a moment then looked away. “It’s nothing.”

Daphne rolled her eyes and scoffed, clearly not believing a word he said. “Look, Draco, it’s difficult for all of us to be back here. Everyone sees us – Slytherins – as the enemy but we’re all united in this, we all understand –“

She reached across the table to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort, but Draco flinched away from her. “I don’t need your help or anyone else’s, Daphne. I just need a drink.”

“Fine,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m sure there will be a party tonight or this weekend. You can drink yourself into a stupor and mope about how you’re _fine_ then.”

Draco ignored her, looking away from his fellow Slytherins and up to the front of the hall where the professors sat. He tugged at his tie, feeling like it was both too tight and too much of a mess at the same time.

Across the room, Hermione sat down near Parvati, Dean, Seamus Finnegan, and Ginny Weasley at the Gryffindor table. After Malfoy had revealed the slightest bit of emotion to her and rushed away, she had trudged up the front steps of the castle alone, feeling rather confused. Thoughts of the people she had lost were gone for the time being as she was left to ponder Malfoy’s bizarre behaviour.

“Where were you, Hermione?” Ginny asked from beside her. “I didn’t see you on the train or at the station.”

“Sorry, Gin, I was in the prefects’ compartment the whole time and then I had to scan the train. I ended up being in the last carriage,” Hermione replied, fidgeting with the plate in front of her and straightening her cutlery.

“Yeah, with fucking _Malfoy_ of all people,” Dean added bitterly, glaring across the room at the Slytherin table. “Sorry about that, Hermione, we didn’t mean to leave you alone with him,” he frowned. “Bloody arse,” he shot one more glare across the room before turning back to his fellow Gryffindors.

_“Malfoy?”_ Ginny said incredulously. “I’m surprised he came back, after everything that happened. I mean, honestly –“

“Can we please stop talking about Malfoy?” Hermione blurted out a little more harshly than she had intended.

Ginny looked at her suspiciously but remained quiet.

The five Gryffindors looked up to the front of the Hall as Professor McGonagall stood at the front to begin her speech, Dumbledore’s absence still painfully obvious even though it had been over a year since his death. “Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts,” she addressed the crowd of students, her smile a bit strained. “Your teachers are so very happy to have you all back, and to see the faces of our new students,” she gestured to the crowd of first-years below her, waiting to be Sorted. “There have been some changes this year from previous –“ she stopped herself for a moment. “From previous _normal_ years,” she continued, “but more on that later. For now, we will have our new Deputy Headmaster, Professor Flitwick, proceed with the Sorting Ceremony.”

Professor Flitwick stood up from the professors’ table and joined Professor McGonagall by the speaking podium. He stood one step up from where the old, wooden three-legged stool and Sorting Hat were and levitated a parchment containing students’ names in front of him. From the stair above, Professor Flitwick was tall enough to place the Hat on the seated students’ heads. He called out the first name and “Adams, Marie” was sorted into Ravenclaw. The Ravenclaw table cheered and applauded, although perhaps not as uproariously as they would have in previous years.

With the next student – “Anders, Joshua” – the Sorting Hat, adorned with perhaps a few more patches then in previous years, seemed to pause for a moment before calling out “Slytherin!”

The hall was dead silent. Not even the Slytherin table applauded, sensing the tension in the room. Little Joshua himself looked a little scared and didn’t move from the stool until Professor McGonagall prodded him in the back with her wand. As Joshua walked, a couple of Slytherin students applauded feebly, the rest of the hall silent.

The next couple students Sorted into Slytherin were met with similar responses. Some looked afraid and some looked disappointed, as if they had suspected it but hoped for a different outcome. As time went on, the Slytherin table applauded with more vigor for each student, and the other three Houses delivered awkward slow claps. Hermione couldn’t help but notice that Slytherin was receiving disproportionately more first years than any other house. In fact, looking around the Hall, the Slytherin table was the only one that appeared close to capacity. The other three Houses were noticeably fewer in number compared to previous years, especially in the upper years. Hermione knew why. With the exception of those who chose to openly fight against Voldemort’s forces, Slytherins had been spared in the Battle of Hogwarts. Slytherins’ families were not targeted and killed in their homes. They had been safe.

Gryffindor only ended up receiving seven new students. Ravenclaw got nine and Hufflepuff got the least with five students. Perhaps Hufflepuff parents who had stood up for the fairness their house was known for had been met with the resistance by Voldemort’s forces. Hermione shuddered to think of the families killed in response.

Trying to brush thoughts of the war from her mind as the Sorting concluded, Hermione looked up to the front of the room again, turning her attention to McGonagall as she began her speech.

“That concludes our Sorting! To our first-years, rest assured that you will be warmly welcomed by both your House and professors,” she smiled. “To all students, this year I want to remind you that division and animosity only breed bad faith, and the best thing we can all do is keep an open mind and be welcoming to all. In light of the past year’s events, I encourage you to think about how we are alike, rather than how we are different. I think you will find that friendship can be found in the most unlikely of places and at the end of the day, the more we are united, the stronger we are.” McGonagall clasped her hands in front of her, her tone and expression serious.

“A couple of changes to staffing,” she continued, “As I said already, Professor Flitwick has assumed the post of deputy Headmaster. The post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is unfortunately vacant but the teaching of the course will be split between myself, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout. The Transfiguration post is being filled by a new teacher, please give a warm welcome to Professor Jones,” she said, indicating to a tall, thin wizard seated at the professors' table. “That is all from me, enjoy your feast!” She waved her hand and the four house tables filled with all the food customary of the Hogwarts Welcoming Feast.

The sight of all the delicious treats warmed Hermione’s heart, reminding her of happy memories, but she still felt uncomfortable with the fact that it was prepared by house elves. Perhaps she could speak to Professor McGonagall about providing the elves with wages and off-time.

“What do you reckon that bit about animosity was about?” Dean asked the group curiously, selecting a chicken wing from the plate in front of him.

“Telling us not to hate Slytherins just because their parents are Death Eaters?” Seamus Finnigan said sarcastically from his seat beside Dean.

“Something like that,” Hermione responded. “McGonagall is right, we shouldn’t assume all the Slytherins were willing participants. Besides, not _all_ of their parents were Death Eaters.”

Hermione was not expecting the puzzled expressions she got from the group in response to her statement. “What?” she asked, looking between Dean, Parvati, Ginny, and Seamus who had all paused eating to stare at her.

“Just that, I thought of all people, you’d be most inclined to hate them,” Seamus replied awkwardly, looking between Hermione and Dean. 

Dean sighed. “Because this time last year, the Ministry wanted us in prison?”

“Well, yeah,” Seamus said sheepishly, looking down at his plate

“The Slytherins can’t control their parents any more than we can control ours, Seamus,” Hermione poked some food around on her plate, her appetite suddenly gone.

Ginny whipped her head to the side to face Hermione. _“What_ has gotten into you?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “I mean, you’re right, of course, you always are. I just mean that you seem different,” she added, changing her tone.

Hermione sighed. “I just had a lot of time to reflect this summer. Besides, didn’t you see how many people our age the Ministry found innocent? Most of them were forced into it by their parents.”

Hermione was not exactly sure why she was defending the Slytherins. Perhaps seeing Malfoy on the verge of tears had struck a chord with her. It was true what she had said about reflection, too. Reading _the Daily Prophet_ articles over the summer had made her realize that for some, it was not always as simple as being a Death Eater or not.

“Still, wondering how many of them over there –“ Parvati gestured her head over at the Slytherin table, “– have got the Mark makes me uncomfortable.”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that. The image of the Dark Mark still struck fear into her, no matter who wore it.

The rest of the feast passed slowly. It had been a long day and Hermione couldn’t help but want to return to her soft four-poster in Gryffindor Tower. She hadn’t anticipated how much energy seeing all of her old friends would take out of her. After the war, she found herself much less in control of her emotions and found the slightest thing could set her off into an anxiety attack. Too preoccupied in how excited she was to finish her NEWTs, she hadn’t considered how emotionally taxing being back at Hogwarts might be.

When she finally climbed through the portrait hole that night after the feast concluded, relieved to get to bed, Hermione was unprepared for the onslaught of sound. In characteristic Gryffindor fashion, a party was raging. Obnoxious boys in red and gold Quidditch sweaters were challenging each other to arm-wrestling matches with their girlfriends standing behind them cheering them on. Kegs of Butterbeer stood against the curved walls of the common room with trays of food smuggled from the feast beside them.

Hermione understood the desire to party. Gryffindors loved to let loose, and they hadn’t been able to at all last year. They certainly had reason to after the stress of the last couple years. Ginny and Dean, who had both been on the Quidditch team in past years, soon found themselves surrounded by their teammates, who clapped them on the back and dragged them off to sit with them. Only one keg of Butterbeer was open, which Hermione noticed was the one marked “non-alcoholic”. She speculated it was because the younger students were still awake.

Happy as she was to see her friends and classmates having a good time, Hermione couldn’t stand the noise. The night had been overwhelming enough already. Making sure Ginny couldn’t see to protest to her leaving, Hermione slipped through the crowd of students up to the girls’ dormitory. For the first time, she climbed all the way to the top of the tower, where the seventh-year girls’ room was. Noticing that her trunk had been placed beside the bed with the biggest window, she quickly looked through it for a comfortable pair of pyjama pants and a jumper. She curled up under the covers with her Potions textbook, waving her wand to shut the curtains around her bed, and lost herself in the pages. School was the one thing she was confident she could do well and being back at Hogwarts surrounded by books made her feel like just maybe, everything would be okay.

* * *

Draco knew the drill well. On the first night of term, the Slytherin prefects gave a speech about the glory of their house, gave the first-years a quick tour of the common room, and sent everyone up to bed. So, they all went up their dormitories to change out of their robes. While the third-years and below put their pyjamas on, the fourth-years and above knew what the night held. They waited half an hour for the younger students to fall asleep, then they all ran back down to the common room dressed in their finest party attire. The students who were seventeen appeared holding the cheapest Firewhisky money could buy, and the party began.

Draco was slumped on the couch in front of the fire, thinking about how weak he had been today. Merlin, he couldn’t even stop himself from crying in front of _Granger_ of all fucking people. Barely anything had even happened. Apparently, all it took was for someone to so much as mention their old Headmaster, and his brain decided that he couldn’t handle it. What was wrong with him?

Draco was just about to go up and get himself a drink himself, because _fuck,_ did he need one, when Theo and Blaise sat down beside him, holding a tumbler for him. He didn’t even bother to say thank you, just took it from Theo’s outstretched hand and downed it in one gulp. He grimaced as the liquid burned his throat, and not in a good way. “Merlin, what is this shit?” he asked.

Theo took a sip and had a similarly disgusted reaction. “Is that really the best they could get?”

Blaise smirked. “Oh yeah, I’m sure it’s the best Firewhisky ten Sickles could buy.”

Theo and Blaise laughed but Draco stayed silent. It was going to take a lot more drinks before he felt like laughing tonight.

“Hang on, I have something better in my dorm,” Theo said. He got up from the couch and reappeared a few minutes later with a full bottle of 20-year aged Firewhisky.

“That’s what I like to see!” Draco replied enthusiastically, getting up from his slumped position, his prospects for the evening lifted at the sight of his favourite brand. Theo, Blaise, and Draco had often stayed up laughing in their dorm, getting drunk on whisky stolen from the fathers’ extensive collections while Crabbe and Goyle slept like trolls.

Twenty minutes later, Draco’s mood was much improved. He was two glasses in (plus the first glass he had downed in a single gulp) and no longer felt like shit. The visceral anxiety that had been nudging him all evening, threatening to send him spiralling over the smallest of things, had ebbed away so that he barely noticed it. He was having an hilarious conversation with Blaise and Theo, swapping stories about their shitty fathers (or stepfathers, in Blaise’s case) when Daphne marched up to the three boys.

“What are you doing?” she asked, dressed in a short leather skirt and holding a glass of spiked pumpkin juice.

“Relax, Daph,” Theo replied, patting the leather sofa beside him. “Have a real drink with us, not whatever that shit you’re drinking is,” he said, gesturing to the bottle of Firewhisky in front of them of which a third was now gone.

“How much have you had?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the three boys, but most noticeably at Draco, who was actually smiling, not smirking like he usually was.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ve only had two, Daph,” he said, stopping for a moment. “Wait, no, three. But the first one was shit whisky, so it barely counts.”

Daphne frowned. “You should be careful, Draco, you’re a prefect, you need to not get _completely_ plastered.”

“Why do you care so much, anyway?” he asked accusatorily, looking her up at down.

Her face turned red. “Because _I’m_ a prefect, Draco. We have to make sure the party doesn’t get too out of hand!” She crossed her arms, glaring at him.

“Whatever,” Draco replied, leaning back into the sofa. “Or instead, you could tell me when you got such nice legs,” he added, gesturing to her short skirt.

Daphne’s face contorted in shock and she let out an exasperated groan. “You know, I thought maybe you would have matured this year, Draco, but you are just as much of an irritating _manwhore_ as you were before. Fuck off!” she added, hissing the last statement and storming away.

The three boys were quiet for a moment. “You know her sister has got a crush on you, right?” Blaise finally said to break the tension.

Draco scoffed, looking around to make sure Astoria wasn’t nearby. “I know,” he replied, finishing his glass and leaning forward to pour another one.

“You going to go for it?” Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco laughed. “Fuck no, she’s like twelve!”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Fifteen, I think.”

Draco shrugged his shoulders and leaned back, just happy to be sitting with his friends, talking about girls and their shitty fathers like old times. With Theo and Blaise (and several drinks), he could almost forget about all the shit that had happened the past two years. Sure, Crabbe and Goyle had defended him when he needed it, but between the two of them, they barely had two brain cells. Theo and Blaise actually understood him. They had all been raised the same way and gone through similar shit during the war. Still, Draco had never told them just quite how bad it had been for him or all of what he had to do. Out of the three of them, he was the only one to wear the Mark.

Several hours later, all but the seventh-year students had gone to bed. Draco, Theo, Blaise, Daphne, Tracey Davis, Millicent Bulstrode, and a couple of other students sat near the fire side, the bottle of Firewhisky now nearly empty. Noticeably absent were Pansy, who had not come back to Hogwarts, Goyle, who had been sent to Azkaban for his use of Unforgivable curses, and Crabbe, who had died at his own hand a few months prior. Thinking about the students who weren’t sitting there with them, Draco reflected on how unjustifiably lucky he had really been. He had used Unforgivable curses just as much as Goyle had, if not more. The difference was that Draco had been able to prove his heart wasn’t in it, thanks to the testimony of his mother, Potter, and Granger. Still, he couldn’t figure out why he didn’t deserve to be rotting in a prison cell just like Goyle. Given he felt like shit most of the time, he didn’t see how being surrounded by Dementors could be all that different.

Draco had lost count of how many glasses of whisky he had consumed. He had slowed down, sure, but he didn’t want the night to end. Right now, in the little bubble of the Slytherin common room, he didn’t feel as judged. He knew as soon as classes started tomorrow, he would have to deal with more of the same glares he had been receiving all night long from the other houses.

The other Slytherins seated around him made small talk and sipped their whisky. Daphne kept scowling at Draco from across the coffee table, which he ignored. He knew how close she was to her sister and that she probably wanted him to ask her out. _As if,_ he thought to himself. Astoria was far too young, far too naïve, and far too easy of a catch for Draco’s tastes.

In his fifth year and sixth years, Pansy had practically been throwing herself at him. They hooked up regularly in fifth year and a couple of times in sixth, but Draco soon became bored of it. He knew it meant more to Pansy than it did to him, and to be perfectly honest, the sex hadn’t been that great. He liked to be constantly challenged and surprised by the person he was with. He liked to have to fight for them.

Not that he had ever had much of a chance to. Apart from the couple times last summer he had gotten completely hammered and hooked up with Muggle girls (and once with a guy), he had never really had to flirt or catch anyone’s attention. There had never been any fun, any buildup, any trying to prove himself to win a witch’s affections.

Draco stopped his train of thought. _Hold on,_ he though. _Am I really saying I want to have to fight for a girl? To have some great romance?_ No, that couldn’t be it. He was just horny, that was all. Draco Malfoy did not do romance. He never had. To be honest, he would probably screw it up anyway. _Just like you screw everything else up_ , the irritational, anxious voice inside him said. Draco grimaced, trying to stop the thoughts there before he spiralled. Maybe he needed to stop drinking.

Draco was still lost in thought, languishing over his pathetic sex life and beating himself up, when Theo announced it was getting late.

“Good point, mate, we have to be up for class in six hours,” Blaise said, standing up beside Theo and stretching. “You coming, Draco?” he asked.

“I’ll meet you guys in a bit. I just want to have one more drink,” Draco replied, staring into the flames. The truth was, he didn’t trust himself not to break down right now and would rather he do it alone so he could have a chance to compose himself.

The rest of the seventh-year Slytherins walked past Draco towards their dormitories. “Pull yourself together, Draco,” Daphne sneered as she passed him, wrenching his whisky glass out of his hand and slamming it down on the coffee table.

Sitting alone by the fire, Draco felt more anxious than ever. It was as if his friends’ company had kept the truly dark feelings at bay, but now they were back with the same force as in the carriage up to the castle earlier. _Why did I come back here?_ He looked around the room, at the snake tapestries, green wall-hangings, and portraits of famous Slytherins adorning the walls. All they did was remind him of everything he was trying to get away from. The pureblood bullshit, the high standards that came with the Malfoy name, the money, the pride, the obnoxious upper-class events, all of it. Draco had thought that back at Hogwarts he might get an escape from all that, without his overbearing mother, but now he saw how wrong he had been. There was no escape. _I was a fool._

In that moment, Draco felt as though there would never be an end to how he was feeling. The dark cloud he felt over him was there to stay. _Maybe I deserve it,_ he thought. After all, he had done terrible things. For the rest of his life, he was going to feel this way. _Because I’m a Malfoy. Because I’m a pureblood. Because I’m held to a “higher standard”._ He ran through the list of all the reasons his father had had for putting the extra pressure on him. It would never end. He was who he was, and if he wasn’t that, he was a failure.

_But you were a failure,_ the irrational voice said. _You failed the Dark Lord, you failed those who fought against him, you fail everyone._

Feeling as though he suddenly couldn’t breathe, Draco reached for the firewhisky bottle on the table. Maybe the burn of the alcohol would open his airway. The bottle was almost empty. Draco filled his glass full with what was left, downing in a single gulp.

Nothing. The edges of his vision were getting blurry, his head was foggy, all he could feel was the trembling in his hands and the way his breath came ragged. _I need to get out of this_ fucking _dungeon,_ he thought.

Springing up from the couch quickly enough to make him dizzy, Draco pelted for the door. Miraculously, he had the sense to check that he has his wand in his pocket. He thought about casting a Disillusionment Charm so he would have less of a chance of getting caught out of bed, but knew he was far too drunk to do magic.

Draco ran through the halls for the Astronomy Tower, not quite sure how he was able to manage all the flights of stairs. Somehow, he did, and when he pulled open the heavy wooden door at the top of the spiral staircase, he was grateful for the fresh air. He felt it filling his lungs, clearing the lump in his throat, calming his mind. A breeze ran through his hair, which was now a mess from him running his hands through it during his sprint through the castle. His breathing was slowing, his pulse calming.

Draco walked up to the parapet, resting his arms on it and looking out over the Hogwarts grounds. It was too dark to see anything but the glimmer of the moonlight on the lake.

Draco was just thinking about all the times he had come up here in his sixth year, all the nights when his task had seemed impossible, when he heard noise from beside him.

If his anxiety was good for anything, it made him quick. He whipped out his wand and pointed it in the direction of the noise. Upon seeing what made it, he dropped his arm. “What are _you_ doing here, Granger?”


	4. The First Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. :) As always, I hope you enjoy and let me know your thoughts! Thank you to everyone who has gotten this fic to nearly 100 reads!

Hermione was reading a particularly fascinating chapter in her Potions textbook about the significance of moon cycles in potion-brewing, when her curtains were wrenched open by a red-faced Ginny Weasley.

“Hermione! I thought I’d find you hiding up here!” she exclaimed, smiling broadly.

“Ginny, what is it?” Hermione asked, sighing and closing her book.

Ginny sat herself down on the edge of Hermione’s bed, grabbing the frame to stabilize herself as she swayed a little. “Come and join the party, ‘Mione! We miss you!” she explained, pouting a little.

Hermione set her book down on her bedside table, knowing where this conversation was going. “You’re drunk, Ginny,” she stated unenthusiastically.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Please, I’m tipsy at worst. Dean brought up the idea of a drinking game between the members of the Quidditch team, and you know me, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Plus, as captain, I really thought I should take part, fostering camaraderie and all that,” she rambled. “But come on! You can’t stay hidden up here in your room!” Ginny declared, pulling Hermione’s blankets off her.

“Hey!” Hermione cried out. “I’m cold.”

“Nope!” Ginny said, grabbing Hermione by the arm and lifting her out of bed. “You’re going to come have fun with your friends!”

“No, Gin, really, I’m tired. Besides I’m a mess! I’m in my pyjamas –“ Hermione protested as Ginny dragged her out of the dormitory.

When they reached the common room, Hermione found it relatively empty. Only the seventh-year students (plus Ginny) were still awake. Dean, Parvati, Seamus, and the other two girls in her year Hermione had never talked to much sat around the fire. Ginny forced Hermione to sit down between her and Dean on the couch, despite the disgruntled noises Hermione made in response.

“Hermione!” Parvati exclaimed, happy to see her. “What were you doing hiding up in your room? Studying? Classes haven’t even started yet!”

Hermione mumbled something about wanting to get a head start as Seamus handed her a glass of Butterbeer. When the conversation turned to Quidditch, Hermione found herself in need of a drink to be able to tolerate talking about the sport she found so boring. She took a large sip of her Butterbeer and spluttered on the taste, grimacing as it burned her throat. “What is this?” she asked dubiously, looking around at her fellow Gryffindors.

“We’re seventeen now, ‘Mione,” Ginny explained, grinning. “That means we can get Firewhisky-spiked Butterbeer.”

“I don’t know if I like the taste,” Hermione said in response.

“Hermione, when have you _ever_ gotten drunk? It’s an acquired taste,” Ginny stated. Hermione had learned from post-Quidditch win parties that Ginny was the type of drunk who wanted everyone else to have as good of a time as she was, which explained why she was pestering Hermione to sit and drink with them.

“Fine,” Hermione conceded, leaning back against the couch and sipping her drink as the group recounted some of Dean and Ginny’s most spectacular Quidditch goals.

Hermione had to admit, after the first couple sips, it wasn’t so bad. The liquid didn’t so much burn her throat as warm it, and the taste was still the pleasant Butterbeer flavour she was accustomed to, with just a hint of added spice.

“Why do you think McGonagall couldn’t find anyone for the Defence job?” Parvati wondered as the conversation turned to classes.

“Probably no one wants it,” Hermione explained, speaking at last. “The job was cursed for so long, then Snape had it, then it became Dark Arts, not Defence. People are scared to take it.”

Parvati shrugged her shoulders and the rest of the group nodded in agreement. “That or everyone who could teach it is dead,” Dean added solemnly.

The group was silent for a moment, thinking about everyone they had lost. Finally, Ginny broke the silence. “About time for bed, don’t you think?” she asked.

Everyone nodded their assent, shoving the half-full keg of Butterbeer into the corner where it was hidden behind a rather large armchair. Now a little tipsy, Hermione was content sitting by the fire. She didn’t drink often, and when she had it had only ever been a couple sips. She had been at Hogwarts for her Wizarding coming of age and her eighteenth birthday had been spent on the run in a cramped tent with two boys, so she hadn’t had the night out with friends most Muggles had. Harry and Ron had tried to cheer her up by getting the three of them a bottle of wine to share from a nearby Muggle town, but Hermione had been so angry at them for going out without Polyjuice that she hadn’t been able to focus much on her birthday celebrations.

Her relative inexperience with alcohol meant that when she stood up, Hermione instantly felt dizzy. She steadied herself on the arm of the couch, brushing a few bushy curls out of her face.

Noticing her incoordination, Ginny laughed and offered her an arm to hold on to. “Come on, lightweight,” she said, leading Hermione towards the dormitories. “You going to be okay on the stairs?”

Hermione nodded. “I’m just a little dizzy.” She let go of Ginny’s arm and placed a hand on the curved wall of the Tower, using it to guide her up to the top. She gave Ginny a hug and said goodnight at the entrance to the sixth-year dorms, walking up to the seventh-years’ on her own.

When she entered their dorm, Hermione noticed that Parvati kept glancing over at the empty bed near the door, clearly feeling the loss of her best friend. Hermione understood that feeling well. They had all lost people.

The four girls said goodnight, got changed, and climbed into their respective beds. It was rather late, after all, and they did have class in the morning.

As she curled up under the familiar cotton sheets, savouring the comfort of the heavy Gryffindor quilt and the tranquility of having the curtains around her bed closed, Hermione smiled to herself. As emotionally exhausting and difficult as being back at Hogwarts was, there was a certain serenity to it. Studying, school, classes, she knew how to do it all. There was no uncertainty there. No Death Eaters in the shadows, no Snatchers waiting to get them. She was safe, and all would be well.

* * *

Apparently, she had spoken too soon about the Snatchers. Hermione was running through a forest, sending curses flying back behind her with relatively little aim. Her heart was pounding. They were closing in on her. She didn’t know where Harry and Ron were. She knew how this would end, where she would end up. She couldn’t breathe –

Then she was running again, this time along black tile floors while shelves and shelves of prophecies collapsed around her, dodging crystal balls as they rained down. Her friends were behind, in front, and beside her. The Death Eaters were too. The door was just ahead, she could almost make it –

She was falling, falling past black rock and stone, deep into the earth. Not towards the Death Chamber that housed the Veil, but towards rock and a pale, scaly best covered in scars. Her friends were yelling around her. She whipped her wand wildly, not even sure what spell she cast. Was it the right one? Would they be safe?

Hermione sat up suddenly just before they made contact with the rock. Instinctually, she reached for her wand. It wasn’t in her pocket. Where was it? She reached out in the darkness and her fingers brushed against the velvet Gryffindor curtains of her four-poster. Reality came crashing back. She was fine. She was in Gryffindor Tower, not the forest where the Snatchers caught them, not the Department of Mysteries, and not the Gringotts vaults. Her friends weren’t with her, they were safe far away in London.

Hermione tried to take several deep breaths to calm her racing pulse as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest, her nightmares still painfully fresh in her memory. She found her wand, tucked under her mattress like it always was when she slept, and waved it, casting a nonverbal _Lumos._ She took in her surroundings, trying to ground herself. By the wandlight, she could see the Gryffindor print of her quilt and the shimmer of the velvet curtains.

It was no use. Her heart was still racing, her hands shaking. Hermione could feel her eyes were wet with tears. She knew how to deal with this feeling. It had happened before, many times over the past two years but had become increasingly worse over the summer. She needed fresh air and to see the sky. Hermione doubted she would get a good enough view of the stars from the window in her dormitory and she didn’t want any of the girls to see her crying if they woke up. She opened her four-poster curtain slowly to stop it from making noise, grabbed a jumper from her trunk, and slid a pair of slippers onto her feet.

Hermione carefully crept out of their dorm, pointing her wand at the door frame and whispering “Silencio” on her way to make sure it didn’t creak. She knew where she was headed: the Astronomy Tower. It was the best place to view the castle grounds, the stars, and the moon. She had snuck out to the Tower a few times in sixth year when she had nightmares of Sirius falling through the Veil and needed to clear her head.

Just before Hermione reached the portrait hole, she cast a quick Disillusionment Charm over herself so she wouldn’t get caught out of bed. She was a prefect, after all.

She quietly crept through the castle, keeping an eye out for the fifth-year prefects who were supposed to be out doing the one-o-clock patrol right now. When she reached the stairway to the Astronomy Tower, she ran up the stairs quickly, desperate to get out in the open and let the cool night air fill her lungs.

Opening the door at the top of the stairwell was a relief. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the chill of the September air on her face. She walked to the edge of the Tower, leaning against a parapet and looking down at the grounds. The lights were off in Hagrid’s cabin, but a small trail of smoke was blowing out of the chimney. The moonlight was reflecting off the lake and making the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest turn silver. She removed the Disillusionment Charm so she could truly enjoy the view.

Looking up at the stars, Hermione found her thoughts once again turned to the people who were now gone. Sirius, Regulus, Remus… those with astronomy names who had fallen trying to defeat Voldemort came to mind first, but soon she found her eyes brimming with tears as she thought of Fred, Tonks, Lavender, Colin Creevey…

Tears slipped from her eyes freely. Hermione tried to take deep breaths. Her heart was no longer racing quite so badly, but she knew it wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge into an anxiety attack. Her fingers dug into the cold stone of the parapet as she tried to ground herself, counting her breaths. She could feel the fog clearing from her mind and the anxious thoughts slowing when movement in the corner of her eye made her jump, sending her heart racing again. Hermione gasped and turned, reaching in her pocket for her wand, but stopped when she saw who was there.

Draco Malfoy was pointing his wand at her, his face mirroring the anxiety she felt. As soon as he saw it was her, he lowered his wand. “What are _you_ doing here, Granger?” he asked.

Hermione raised her hands to her face, wiping under her eyes and patting her hair, trying to calm it. She hadn’t even brushed it before leaving Gryffindor Tower. _Why do I care? He’s saw me after being on the run for eight months with no showers._ Trying to ignore thoughts of how exactly Malfoy had seen her, she crossed her arms, acutely aware of what the cold air was doing to her bare chest. “I needed air,” she finally responded. “What are you doing up here?”

Draco looked her up and down, taking in the curves her knitted jumper did little to hide and the thin fabric of her pyjama pants. Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair was a bushy mess, despite her attempts to flatten it. He slipped his wand back in his pocket, noticing that they had been maintaining eye contact all this time. _She has nice eyes,_ he found himself thinking. _Shit, I really am drunk._ “I also needed air.” It wasn’t an outright lie.

Hermione tore her eyes away from Malfoy’s, the moonlight making her notice for the first time what a unique colour they were. She said nothing for a few moments, unsure how to proceed. She rested her arms on the parapet, leaning over it a bit to look down at the grass. She didn’t know how to speak or have a conversation with Malfoy. Today alone they had talked nearly as much as the first seven years she had known him. Hermione had to admit though, it was kind of nice getting to see a different side of him. She almost didn’t recognize him without the snide remarks and cruel slurs.

Draco swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat when he saw the shape of her body as she turned away from him and leaned over the castle wall. _What is wrong with me?_ He copied her, resting his arms on the barrier and staring out at the grounds, not quite sure what to say.

“Why did you need air?” Granger finally asked him when the silence became tense and uncomfortable.

Draco felt goosebumps rise all over his body from something other than the chill of the night air. He snuck a glance at her. She still wasn’t looking at him, but she was leaning over the railing with her rear sticking out in the same maddening way as before. Draco looked away from her, closing his eyes and taking a breath. The anxiety he was feeling now was entirely different than what he was used to. It was anticipatory and exhilarating. He could feel it flowing through him, making his nerves endings tingle with excitement.

Realizing it had been a while since she had asked him but unsure how to respond, Draco clasped his hands and let them dangle over the edge of the wall, staring down at the lake as he mulled over how to answer her. “Why do you care, Granger?”

Knowing she was probably going to respond with some ridiculous Gryffindor gallantry about chivalry and empathy, Draco glanced over at her to see her expression. As expected, she rolled her eyes, shooting him an irritated glare afterwards. “Do I have to have a reason, Malfoy? I’m curious,” she answered unexpectedly.

“You always were annoyingly curious,” Draco responded, the words flowing off his tongue before he could think them over. “Insufferable know-it-all, if I remember right.” He smirked, his eyes still glued to Granger even though she had since turned her face away from him.

Hermione turned to look at Malfoy again, taking in his obnoxious smirk. It was an expression she had seen him wear many times over the years, but there was something different about it this time. Something in his eyes. This time, his smirk wasn’t mocking, it was almost playful. If she didn’t know better, Hermione would say he was flirting.

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ she thought to herself. Still, she would be a fool not to admit that there was something desirable about Malfoy. He was tall, fit, and witty. He also looked infuriatingly good in the black slacks and white dress shirt he was wearing. If not for his prejudice and the insults he had doled out over the years, she might have even found him attractive. _But he hasn’t insulted you or called you a Mudblood in over a year,_ a voice inside of her said. Against her better judgment, she replied back flirtatiously. “I _will_ come over there and slap you again, Malfoy, be careful.”

Draco had to restrain himself to stop his jaw from dropping. Was she flirting? It certainly sounded like it, but Granger couldn’t possibly be flirting with him. He had been horrible to her.

Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was his vow to be less of an asshole, but Draco once again found himself being uncharacteristically honest in her presence. “All right, I needed air because I was feeling like shit and didn’t feel like moping about it in the Slytherin dungeons,” he answered finally. Emotions were something he rarely talked about and he found himself shocked by how freeing it was to voice his feelings.

Hermione was surprised by his response. She looked over at him and met his eyes, noticing once again how the moonlight made them turn silver. She felt a pang in her chest, almost like she felt bad for him. _I told him he wouldn’t be getting any pity from me,_ she reminded herself. The pang in her chest was still there. Steeling her nerves, Hermione took a few steps towards him, not quite sure why she felt inclined to. They were now only a metre apart.

Draco felt his breath hitch in his throat. He had already shown more emotion than usual tonight and he could feel by her closeness that her infuriating Gryffindor determination was itching to draw more out of him. “Why did you need air?” he asked in an attempt to draw the conversation away from himself. They were close enough that he could hear her sharp intake of breath and sense her trepidation.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, not sure how or if she should respond. He had been honest, more than she had ever known him to be, why shouldn’t she? “I had nightmares,” she finally answered in a whisper.

Draco wanted to respond that he had nightmares too, that he understood, but his words got stuck in his throat. They were quiet for several moments, the air between them tense. Draco’s hands, still dangling over the railing, were fidgeting and twitching. He pulled at his cuticles, a nervous habit of his.

Hermione was uncomfortable in the silence and tension. She didn’t know why she was still here talking to Malfoy, but she knew she wasn’t ready to return to Gryffindor Tower, leaving the quiet peacefulness of the Astronomy Tower and the stars behind. “How was your summer?” she asked finally, eager to break the silence. In reality, Hermione was pretty sure she knew exactly how his summer had been. It had been all over the _Daily Prophet_ practically every other day.

Malfoy scoffed in response, his eyes downcast towards his hands. “Shitty,” he said simply. “How was yours?”

“Shitty,” Hermione replied, looking over at him. The moonlight was casting shadows across his face, and for the first time she noticed the sculpture of his jawline and cheekbones.

Slowly, Malfoy turned his face to meet her gaze, his full lips parted just the slightest bit and silver eyes wide and glassy. When his eyes met hers, Hermione felt her heart jump, but she couldn’t quite place why. Malfoy’s eyes really were the most beautiful colour, silver and pearlescent like mercury. Something about his expression held her eyes with a kind of fierce resolve. Hermione could feel herself warming under his stare, her cheeks flushing. It was like everything was happening in slow motion. She was transfixed, frozen in place, left to wordlessly ponder what about him was so alluring that she couldn’t move.

Draco had unintentionally caught her in his gaze, and he couldn’t look away. There was something ethereal about the way her face was carved, as though the proportions were too close to perfection to be real. How had he never noticed it before? Her bushy hair usually hid her face from view, but from this close he could see the angular yet feminine shape of her cheekbones, her perfect brows, and the way her narrow nose turned up at the end. He felt his lips opening unintentionally, and as much as his brain screamed to run, the Firewhisky he had consumed which was now burning through his veins told him otherwise.

Draco was standing up to do something he would _definitely_ regret, something his 14-year-consciousness had bullied himself relentlessly for thinking about, something she would probably hate him for, when he felt the Firewhisky shift, and suddenly it was all wrong. The alcohol was hitting him too hard; he was no longer emboldened by it, but messy and sloppy. He felt himself stumbling, his feet uncoordinated underneath him. He gripped the stone railing, his fingers struggling to find purchase on the rock worn smooth from the persistent Scottish rain.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken when Malfoy stood up and made to move towards her, unsure what she was expecting but exhilarated all the same. Then suddenly, his face changed. He was tumbling forwards, looking like he was going to faint and face-plant onto the cold stone floor. Impulsively, Hermione took several steps forward to reach him. She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the crisp linen of his expensive dress shirt, holding onto him to support him and keep him from falling.

He was tall, much taller than her, and she struggled to hold him up. Her fingers slipped over his chest, one hand inadvertently sliding under the unbuttoned top of his dress shirt to meet bare skin, feeling defined muscles underneath.

Just when she thought he might take her down with him, Malfoy caught his balance and righted himself, holding onto her shoulders for support as he planted his feet on the ground. He finally stopped tumbling with his face inches from hers. Hermione was just wondering what on earth had gotten into him, when she realized why his eyes had been so glassy and pupils so wide. She had thought maybe… but no, his breath reeked of Firewhisky.

Malfoy grimaced, not meeting her eye. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not letting go of her shoulders.

Suddenly very aware of how intertwined they were, Hermione pushed him away just hard enough to send him stumbling back several feet back but not knock him over. “You’re drunk, Malfoy!” she hissed.

Draco felt very foolish. He had taken it too far, drank too much _again._ They had shared a moment that could only be described as intimate and as much as one part of him wanted to laugh that it had been with Granger, another part was disappointed and angry that he has screwed it up. _You idiot, Draco!_ he cursed himself as his vision spun.

The alcohol had hit him all at once, the stars behind her head were spinning, and he could barely see as she marched up to him. Granger grabbed his arm harshly, digging her nails in. She was pissed. Through his foggy vision, Draco could still discern the irate look on her face as she dragged him by his arm off the Astronomy Tower.

“Come on, you idiot,” she said disapprovingly, leading him away.

As Granger led him down the spiral stairs (a difficult task in his state) and marched him through the castle, Draco cursed himself for his lack of restraint, for his drinking, for his behaviour, feeling more and more moronic with every step.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, quiet enough that had she not been right beside him, she wouldn’t have heard, but he knew she did. “I’m an idiot.”


	5. Forgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was worried it would, and it did, school got the best of me. More specifically, organic chemistry. That being sad, this chapter is finally done! I finished it with a glass of wine tonight and read over it a few times, but I may have missed some typos. I have many thoughts for how this will go from here and am excited to see what you all think! As always, please feel free to leave comments or constructive criticism. Your engagement makes me so happy! I will try to get the next chapter up a bit more quickly. This one is a bit longer than the previous ones have been, so I hope that makes up for the wait!

When Theo shook him awake the next morning, the first things Draco felt were the pounding in his head and the foul tase in his mouth. The next things he felt were embarrassment and shame. He had gone too far, gotten completely plastered, and been dragged back to bed by _Granger,_ of all people. To make matters worse, when they reached the bare wall where the entrance to the Slytherin common room was hidden and Draco couldn’t remember the password, Granger had knocked on the stone wall with her fist to get the attention of someone inside. Daphne had answered her call and taken Draco from Granger, leading him to his bed and lecturing him about how stupid he was. Draco had been too drunk to recall the exact details of what she had said, just that it had made him feel like even more of a fuck-up.

Draco was lying in bed on top of the covers with his curtains wide open, still in his party clothes from the night before. He sat up, running his fingers through his messy hair. “What time is it?’ he asked

“Seven thirty,” Theo replied as he quickly donned his robes. “If we hurry, we can grab some breakfast before classes start.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, springing quickly out of bed and having to clutch the frame to steady himself against the wave of nausea that quickly overcame him. “Do you have a Pepper-Up?” he asked Theo.

“Sorry, no, mate,” Theo responded. “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

Draco mumbled a response, stumbling into the bathroom off their dorm to get ready. Pressed for time, he resorted to spells to freshen his appearance, casting a _Scourgify_ on his teeth and a quick tidying spell on his hair, which was currently falling his eyes and sticking up in strange directions. He used the bathroom (sorely needed after all he’d drank) and ran back into the dorm room to get dressed. He pulled his dress shirt and Slytherin jumper over his head and sat on his bed to put his legs through his pants.

Grabbing his school bag and shoving his robe and textbooks into it, Draco quickly glanced into the mirror that hung by the door on his way out. He found himself shocked by his appearance. Seeing himself back in his Slytherin uniform felt almost unwelcome, like he shouldn’t deserve to be wearing it after all the shit he’d pulled at this school and the horrible crime he had almost committed here two years ago. He straightened his tie and looked away.

Pushing thoughts of his misdeeds from his mind and knowing full well that they would come boiling back up to torment him later tonight, Draco sprinted out of his dorm, through the Slytherin common room, and up the steps out of the dungeons. He dashed through the Entrance Hall towards the tall doors of the Great Hall. Just as he was walking through them, staring at the ground and trying to ignore the dirty looks and whispers directed towards him, someone else came speed-walking towards him. Still a little off kilter from the previous night, Draco missed his chance to dodge out of their way and their shoulders collided harshly. Biting his tongue to hold back a snide response, Draco looked up to see who it was.

Hermione glared at Malfoy accusingly, her chest heaving as she took deep breaths to calm her annoyance. “You know, Malfoy, if you’re pissed about last night, you can just say it to my face,” she hissed.

Hermione had thought that maybe their dynamic had changed, that maybe Malfoy was a better person now, but here he was being just as much of a prat as usual. She stormed off towards the dungeons for Potions with Slughorn, fuming.

She could hardly believe Malfoy’s audacity. He was such an idiot. He had drunk too much and Hermione had _helped_ him, but here he was being rude and shoulder-checking her at the first chance he got. Hermione was so pissed off at him that she didn’t even feel the normal first day-of-class anxiety she usually did.

She walked briskly into the Potions classroom at seven forty-five, early as usual. Slughorn hadn’t even left his office yet and Hermione was the only one in the classroom. She took a seat at the front and set her copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ on the desk in front of her. She began unpacking her cauldron and potion kit from her bag, organizing the supplies neatly on the desk in front of her.

“Ms. Granger, it is wonderful to see you!” Slughorn said, appearing from his office. He looked the same as he had when Hermione had seen him a few months prior at the Battle of Hogwarts, except perhaps with a few more grey hairs. The characteristic way he clutched his large belly as he walked reminded Hermione of a simpler time two years ago when her biggest worries were the Half-Blood Prince and Harry’s obsession with Malfoy being a Death Eater. Of course, he had been right, but none of them had known that at the time.

Hermione smiled. “It’s great to see you too, Professor.”

“I must say, I was overjoyed when Minerva told me you had elected to return to Hogwarts, Ms. Granger. You always were one of my best students! I’m a little disappointed not to see Mr. Potter, though,” Slughorn said as he began preparing his lesson at the front of the class.

“Yes, well, Harry and Ron accepted the Ministry’s offer to go straight to the Auror Academy –“ Hermione began to once again explain why her best friends were absent, but Slughorn cut her off in his usual overbearing manner.

“Oh, yes, yes! And I could not be more proud of Mr. Potter, but still, I rather think that finishing one’s education and understanding the fundamentals of magic is of the greatest importance,” he explained.

Hermione didn’t miss the way Slughorn left Ron out of the conversation. Ron had always been quite average in his academic performance, and Slughorn had always been one to brush aside all but the very best of his students. Though Hermione herself put great pride in her accomplishments, it always unnerved her the way Slughorn seemed to use them to deem a person’s worth. He was right about the education point, though. Hermione didn’t understand why Harry and Ron hadn’t come back. “I quite agree, Professor,” she replied.

The other students filed into the classroom for their eight-o-clock lesson. While Hermione patiently waited for it to start, she skimmed over the brewing instructors for the potion they were covering that day, a review of Felix Felicis from their sixth year. Hermione was the only Gryffindor in the room given the other students in her year had not continued on to NEWT Potions. Ernie Macmillan and Padma Patil sat together at the table adjacent to Hermione with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott at the table behind them. Behind Hermione, Terry Boot and Michael Corner were talking loudly about Quidditch tryouts.

Slughorn was just getting up to begin the lesson, when the door to the dungeons creaked open. Hermione whipped her head around at the noise and saw Malfoy slinking through the open door, trying to go unnoticed but failing. He briefly met her eyes before looking away, glancing up at Slughorn who was staring at him with a frown.

“Mr. Malfoy, what possible reason could you have to be late on the very first day of classes?” Slughorn asked as Malfoy slowly shut the door behind him.

Malfoy stood still, looking unsure how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “I…” he trailed off.

Slughorn sighed. “Slept in? Well, I would’ve expected better behaviour from you, Mr. Malfoy. I’d hate to have to take points from one of my _best_ students, and my own house no less.” Hermione didn’t miss the distaste in Slughorn’s voice and suspected he was once again focusing on achievements more than anything else, resenting Malfoy for his part in the war.

Malfoy dropped his head and took a few steps further into the classroom. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t let it happen again. Come on, sit here at the front, you’ll need a partner for today’s lesson,” Slughorn explained, turning away from Malfoy to begin lecturing from the blackboard notes he had prepared.

Hermione stiffened when she realized what Slughorn had meant. He had told Malfoy to sit beside _her._ She was still pissed off from the previous night. Just when she was starting to think that Malfoy might be tolerable, he had gone and drank himself into a stupor. He really was the most irritating person Hermione had ever met. He just waltzed into every situation acting like he was God’s gift to humanity, like he was so much better than everyone else and that he could get away with drinking his body weight and behaving like a complete buffoon. _As soon as I get a chance, I’m going to give that half-wit ferret a piece of my mind –_

“Excuse me,” Malfoy said from beside her. Hermione looked up at him in annoyance. He was gesturing to her chair which was blocking his path to the seat beside her. Hermione pulled it forward without a word, trying to pretend Malfoy wasn’t sitting five inches to her left.

Her efforts were in vain and Hermione could barely concentrate on the lesson Slughorn was giving. _Thank Merlin it’s just review,_ she thought as her mind once again drifted to how utterly incensed she was over Malfoy’s behaviour. She cursed herself for how open she had been with him last night. She chalked it up to the combination of the late hour, moonlit tower, and the single drink she had had the night before. Hermione refused to believe she would ever behave that way under the stark reality of daylight.

Then, as if it hadn’t been enough that he had made a complete fool of himself, the moron had kept mumbling about how sorry he was and how he was an idiot, as if looking for her forgiveness. _He’s not going to get it,_ Hermione vowed.

Draco could hardly stand to be sitting so close to her. He mentally cursed Slughorn for seating them beside each other. He completely ignored the lesson and focused instead on how in the name of Salazar he was going to get through a whole year with Granger as his Potions partner.

He could revert to being an asshole and make her beg Slughorn to switch them. He at least had confidence in his ability to be insufferably odious in the eyes of Gryffindors. However, he found himself disliking that option. As angry as he was that he had been made a fool of in front of Granger, he was more upset with himself than her. After all, he was the one who had drank enough alcohol to render most people unconscious.

Draco found his attention drawn back to the lesson as Slughorn was explaining how to measure the precise right quantity of rue powder in one of the final steps of the recipe. _So that was where I kept screwing up,_ he thought to himself, remembering the couple times in his sixth year he had tried unsuccessfully to brew Felix Felicis. Draco shuddered thinking of the time he had been so desperate that he tried a sip of the brew before its six-month stewing period was elapsed. He had ended up on the floor of his dormitory feeling as though his organs were being ripped out of his chest from the toxicity of the immature potion.

“Malfoy!” Granger snapped from beside him, pulling Draco out of his recollections.

“What?” he asked lazily to cover up the way his skin had prickled at the unpleasant memory, finally turning to look at Granger, who was fixing him with an evil stare.

“Were you paying attention at all? Come on, it’s time to start brewing,” she put her cauldron in the middle of the table. “Slughorn said we’re to work together since the Ashwinder egg is too dangerous for one person to handle alone.”

As instructed, they put on their dragonhide gloves and proceeded to the front of the classroom to grab the highly explosive egg. Without a word, Granger gestured to call Draco over to beside her and together they slowly lifted the egg off Slughorn’s desk, walking back to their combined workspace while keeping it perfectly level.

Draco was grateful for the dragon leather that kept their skin from touching. If it hadn’t been there, it would have been impossible for him to ignore the fact that barely six hours ago Granger’s hands had been all over him as she held him steady. That part of the night at least was crystal clear in his memory.

They worked in silence, only speaking to let the other know which ingredients they were adding to the cauldron. When it came time to heat the cauldron and stir it slowly, the tension between them heightened, their work no longer distracting them from the events of last night, which hung in between them like an ominous cloud.

Hermione was watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He was stirring the cauldron and keeping an eye on it, glancing at his ostentatious watch every so often to check how long they had been stirring for.

As pissed off as she was at him, Hermione still felt the impulse to make sure he was all right after the events of last night. _Stupid Gryffindor chivalry,_ she cursed the traits of her house for her concern. The vulnerability he had shown on the carriage ride up to the castle and at the Astronomy Tower told her that there was something going on inside him, some internal struggle or fear, and as much as she wished she wasn’t, Hermione was curious to find out what that was.

“Did you get back to your dorm okay last night?” Hermione asked to break the awkward silence. She felt the tension between them dissipate a little bit.

Draco looked up from the cauldron, meeting Granger’s eye. Her brows were knit together and her lips pursed as though she was uncomfortable to ask if he had been safe. Draco wondered why she was asking when it was clear she was still angry with him. Swallowing his initial instinct to put up his walls and dismiss her, he opened his mouth to answer honestly. “Yeah, Daphne dragged me back to bed. She already gave me an earful about how drunk I was, in case you’re wondering.”

Granger rolled her shoulders back and shook her head slightly as though some tension had been relieved. “Good,” she answered, then narrowed her eyes as if she regretted saying it. “I only mean, I’d hate for the other Prefects to find you passed out in some corridor. We have to set an example, as you know,” she backtracked.

Draco felt an uncomfortable fluttering sensation in his chest that he tried to ignore, wary of what it might mean. Some part of him was pleased by her response, by the idea that another human being cared whether or not he was left unconscious in some corner of the castle. “Were you worried about me, Granger?” he asked, smirking. Sceptical as he was about the source of the fluttering in his chest, he wanted to know the reason for her concern, even if it was purely because of his status as a Prefect.

Granger stiffened and turned her head to glare at him. She paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then she relaxed slightly, finally having decided. “You were completely and utterly plastered, Malfoy. I’m surprised you didn’t get alcohol poisoning. Any sane person would worry.”

Draco felt the fluttering sensation intensify and he cleared his throat, shoving it away. “I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

“Don’t apologize, Malfoy, you already did a hundred times last night,” she replied, still staring at him. Now, her expression had changed to one he couldn’t quite read. It was inquisitive and hesitant, but there was something else in her eyes that he couldn’t identify.

“I know,” Draco answered, feeling the familiar feeling of anxiety and guilt racing through his veins over his idiotic behaviour. “But I was drunk then, and I wanted to apologize again sober.” He didn’t know where his insistence for apologizing was coming from, but he didn’t want to ignore his feelings this time. He was determined she know how awful he felt for making a fool of himself and ruining the moment they had shared.

Granger sighed. “I find it hard to believe you’re not still drunk or at least hungover from all you had to drink, Malfoy.” She looked away from him to the cauldron. “Give me that, you’re stirring too quickly.” She crossed the distance between them, reaching to grab the glass stirring rod from his hand.

Eager to shift away from the conversation that was making her break out in uncomfortable goosebumps, Hermione moved a little too quickly to reach the stirring rod, and the whole side of her body pressed up against Malfoy’s front as he stumbled out of the way. She inhaled sharply, suddenly remembering how his toned chest had felt against her hands. _No!_ She tried to push those thoughts out of her mind, but it was difficult given her pulse was now racing. She stared intently at the cauldron, focusing on the speed at which she was stirring and the slowly changing colour of the potion.

Hermione heard Malfoy clear his throat from beside her and she found herself wondering what he was thinking. His apology had seemed genuine, and even though she had vowed not to give him her forgiveness, she felt a part of her itching to break that personal promise. Why was he so insistent to apologize? _Maybe he has changed,_ she thought. In the past twenty-four hours he had shown inklings of both his past self and of a changed man. That man seemed hurt, isolated, and scared, exactly as Hermione felt.

“Seriously, Granger,” Malfoy said, taking a deep breath. Hermione kept her attention focused on the cauldron in front of her, trying not to give in to the part of her that wanted to forgive him. She felt like there was a reason for his drinking but knew if she opened that can of worms, she might not be able to be as angry with him anymore. After she had got back to Gryffindor Tower last night, incensed that she had to drag him all over the castle, she felt a weight settle in her chest that felt like a loss. They had shared a moment of common trauma and experience when they mentioned their summers, and that moment felt unreachable now. Confused as she was by her feelings, Hermione was angry that he had caused that feeling of loss, even if it hadn’t been intentional.

“Granger, are you listening to me?” Draco asked hesitantly. He felt himself teetering on the precipice of vulnerability, but something about her drew unwitting honesty out of him. To be perfectly candid, he liked that he was able to get things off his chest in her presence and found it relaxed him.

From beside him, Granger clenched her jaw and chiseled her features into an impassive expression. “I’m trying to ignore you.”

Draco furrowed his brow, feeling a lump in his throat he knew all too well was indicative of anxiety. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m angry at you,” she answered, not looking at him.

“You have every right to be, I was an asshole,” Draco replied without thinking.

Granger let out a short laugh and Draco felt his chest swell. “Yes, you were.”

“I’m really sorry.”

It was at the moment that she finally tore her eyes away from the potion in front of her to meet his. Draco could see the warring expressions on her face, but finally her features softened and she let out a breath. “It’s all right, Malfoy. Just try not to make a habit of it, okay?”

Draco nodded. He was grateful she turned back towards the potion because he was certain at that moment that his features would betray him. Hearing her say those words, he felt relief wash over him. He knew her forgiving him for one night didn’t mean much, but after all the horrible things he had done, any forgiveness at all helped ease his self-deprecating thoughts.

Never did he think he would have Hermione Granger’s forgiveness, but Draco found himself revelling in it. The rest of the lesson proceeded smoothly as he tried to keep the smile off his face.

When he got back to his dorm that night, feeling considerably lighter after Potions class in the morning, Draco took a seat on a couch in front of the fire, smiling to himself.

His mind had kept replaying the melodious laugh Granger had let out and the way her face softened as she forgave him. One part of his brain kept trying to tell him he didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but a larger part was too overwhelmingly jubilant to listen. It was as though with that short laugh, she had eased some of his pain and made him feel like he was more than just an ex-Death Eater who deserved prison. The way her elegant features had relaxed as she forgave him gave Draco just the slightest bit of hope for redemption and a future where he was seen as more than the brand he wore on his left arm.

It confused him how such a small action could elicit such a huge response from him, but he was learning that these days his emotions were as unstable as the Scottish climate around them, sunny one day and pouring rain the next.

The unprecedented happiness Draco felt for the rest of the evening gave him motivation which he had long since lacked to do several assignments and read a chapter of his Transfiguration textbook. Draco was relishing in the feelings of happiness, they had been absent for so long, and that lack of negativity led him to forget the Occlumency he usually practiced before bedtime to ward off the worst nightmares.

Draco was back in the home he had grown up in, the tall columns and polished marble no longer as regal as he had found them in childhood. Now, they were cold and imposing. Here and there specks of scarlet stood out against the alabaster stone, remnants of the Dark Lord’s latest malevolent orders.

It was Easter break of 1998. Draco had returned home from school to find his home plunged even further into darkness. His mother and father, who he had not seen since Christmas, both wore looks of fear on their pallid faces. The resolve that Lucius had once shown for his beliefs had vanished, replaced by self-loathing over his weakness and panic for his family’s safety. When he spoke, his voice was shaky and unstable. Draco remembered the deafeningly loud and resolute proclaims Lucius used to make about Muggles and Mudbloods over their dinner table. He almost missed that side of his father, because the alternative he was left with now was like a blank shell of a man.

His mother was worse. She barely spoke or left her bedroom. When she did, it was to diligently arrange their breakfast room table with tea and delicate scones for Death Eater meetings. The irony of it would make Draco want to laugh, if he hadn’t been so terrified. The sight of burly pureblood supremacists sitting at the table where Draco had once done his homework eating Narcissa’s scones and discussing which blood traitor they were torturing that evening was peculiar, to say the least.

On this particular evening, Draco was wandering the halls of the second floor, holding his Potions textbook and thinking about how utterly ridiculous it was that he was still made to attend school when he had a Dark wizard living in his house. His ruminations over whether he should even attempt the assigned homework were cut short by the sounds of a scuffle from downstairs.

Draco wanted to retreat to his room, like he always tried to do whenever Snatchers or Death Eaters brought their latest conquests to the Manor, but he was stopped by his mother running up the main staircase.

“Draco,” she whispered, and he was hit with the realization that this was the first time he had heard her talk since coming home two days ago. “You’re needed downstairs.”

Draco felt his heart plummet into his stomach. No doubt the Dark Lord wanted to punish Lucius more by forcing him to watch his seventeen-year-old son commit more Unforgivable curses.

“Yes, mother,” he replied, his voice hoarse and raspy. He set his Potions textbook down on a lounge chair and patted the back pocket of his dress pants for his wand, sure he would be needing it.

He was unprepared for what he saw when he came downstairs. Weasley and Granger, both wearing disheveled clothes and looking like they hadn’t showered in months, were being held by Snatchers who had their wands pointed at their throats. Draco stared at the pair of them, struck utterly dumb by the picture of them in his drawing room. He tried to rationalize the image of the unkempt girl in front of him with the one in the periwinkle ball gown who crept about his subconscious. His brain refused to make sense of it, and he was left staring at the two of them, frozen in place.

Finally, Draco looked down to the third figure, who had been forced to his knees by a Snatcher and had his hands bound behind his back. Aunt Bella stood in front of the unknown man, contemplating him with her mad stare.

There was something familiar about the mop of greasy black hair that hung over the boy’s head and the determined glint in his eye. If not for his swollen face and the cuts on his cheek, Draco was sure he could identify him. He felt certain he knew this man… and that was when it hit him.

The odd angle the boy’s nose was twisted at reminded Draco of a time a year and a half ago on the Hogwarts Express… Merlin, Potter looked worse than the time Draco had broken his nose.

It was Potter, he was sure of it. He never went anywhere without Weasley and Granger, and the three of them were rumoured to be on the run together. Draco knew that underneath the tendrils of black fringe hanging over his forehead, that infuriating lightning scar would be there, plain as day.

Draco felt his pulse quicken. What did they want him for? Were they going to force him to torture his old schoolmates? No matter how many jinxes he had sent towards the three of them over the years, the only time he had thought of using an Unforgivable curse had been when Potter had found him at his lowest, crying in that bathroom. One had to mean them, and Draco knew if he was asked to, this time he wouldn’t.

“Well, Draco? Is it them? Potter and his gang?” Aunt Bella’s voice was desperate but crooning, as if she was trying to flatter a response out of her nephew.

Draco took a few slow strides towards them, each step bringing a new wave of anxiety over him. His breath was coming short and he could feel his heart beating in his ears. The edges of his vision were fuzzy and he felt bile rising in his throat.

“I – I can’t be sure,” he managed, kneeling in front of Potter. It was him, all right. Draco recognized the hostile glare he was shooting him out of his one open eye from the Quidditch pitch.

“We have to be sure, Draco! If we call him here and it’s not them, he’ll kill us _all_ ,” Bellatrix insisted. She didn’t need to say who “he” was, everyone in the room was painfully aware that she meant the Dark Lord.

Draco stammered out a feeble response, not saying much of anything. He stepped back from Potter, needing to get some space between him and his school nemesis. He looked up at Granger and Weasley. Weasley was giving him a glare similar to Potter’s, except perhaps even more loathing. When Draco turned to look at Granger, he felt his heart stop. The look she was giving him was desperate and pleading, and he felt his chest tighten as he thought of how he knew he would be too weak to help them.

The room around him faded as Draco felt a silent anxiety attack overtake him. He barely registered Aunt Bella’s frenzied screaming about a sword and her Gringotts vault or how Potter and Weasley were dragged away. The world around him faded and all he felt was the ball of nausea in his throat, his pounding heart, and the pain in his fingers as he anxiously picked at his hangnails with one hand. It was only when he heard a second scream, one of pain that didn’t belong to his aunt, that he was harshly dragged back to reality.

He almost didn’t believe the scene in front of him. _Almost._ Too many horrible things had happened in this room for him not to believe it.

Granger was sprawled on the floor, her sweater pulled indecently off and left only in a tank top as Aunt Bella hunched over her with a knife. She had been immobilized except for her head. Draco suspected it was because Bellatrix liked seeing the look of terror on her face.

“We didn’t take anything!” she cried out, tears leaking out of her eyes. Another scream racked her body as Aunt Bella descended upon her, drawing scarlet letters with her knife and leaving rivulets of ruby on the polished hardwood floor.

Draco was frozen, his body so paralyzed with shock and anxiety that he may as well be Immobilized. The sight of his schoolmate in his childhood home refused to compute in his brain. He could not believe that the girl he had once jinxed and called horrible names was laying on his dining room floor, bleeding. The life he had lived at Hogwarts, the persona he had adopted, seemed so far away now, and having Granger here brought it all crashing back. It only reminded him of all the ways he had gone wrong, the dark path he had naively marched down.

He wanted to help her, or help his parents, just to do something, but he couldn’t move. Unable to tear his eyes away yet wanting nothing more than to run to his room, he watched Aunt Bella torture the girl who had once worn the periwinkle gown, her clothes stained crimson with her own blood.

The torture seemed to drag on and on. Stuck in his thoughts, Draco had lost his sense of time. Suddenly, Aunt Bella had turned away and there was a roar as Weasley sprinted towards Granger to protect her. Draco looked up, Potter, looking like himself again, had drawn his wand. Instinctively, Draco reached into his back pocket for his. He frantically duelled Potter, barely aware what spells he was casting. Aunt Bella’s maddening voice called out, and Draco felt his heart stop when he saw her holding Granger’s limp form, her favourite cursed blade tight against her throat.

He stumbled forward, snatching up the Potter and Weasley’s wands as they dropped them. Suddenly, there was a deafening crash, and the edges of his vision became blurry as his heart rate climbed. Draco saw a familiar elfish face, diamonds littered the floor, a blade was thrown, a sharp crack resounded throughout the room, and then all was quiet.

Draco sat up in bed, his heart pounding. His skin was clammy and damp, his teeth chattering from the chill of the Black Lake. All fragments of the happiness he had felt earlier were gone, all he felt now was the visceral anxiety pulsing through his veins as a ball of nausea rose in his throat. Feeling like he was going to be sick, Draco grabbed his wand from his bedside table, casting a _Lumos_ and staggering to the washroom.

Leaning over the toilet, Draco felt his emotions start to come rolling in. The anxiety had been physical at first, but now his mind was racing with dark thoughts. He cursed himself for his weakness and allegiance to the Dark Lord, for how he had been unable to pick a side. The cool air wafting out of the pipes he hung his head over cleared some of the fog muddling his brain and he sat back from the toilet, leaning against the wall and running his hands through his hair. 

Sleep was one of the few times Draco wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt and he found his vision drawn to his bare left forearm and the brand that took up most of the skin there. The Dark Mark had faded to a pale grey, but the forked tongue of the snake and sunken eyes of the skull were just as menacing as the day they had first appeared on his skin. Placing a hand on his forearm and digging his nails in to distract him, Draco looked away, trying to remind himself that it was over now.

In his mind, he could still see Granger sprawled on his drawing room floor and the mad glint in his aunt’s eye. The images and their ensuing guilt refused to fade, and Draco found himself wanting to go to the one place the brought him solace. Grabbing a bottle of Firewhisky from under his bed, he clothed himself and snuck out of his dorm, heading for the Astronomy Tower.


End file.
